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WEBSTER,  N.Y.  MS80 

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CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICIVIH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


^ 


"     ■     -■■                                                 ,               .  .        .                                                                                -      ■                               ....                          .                .                                     ......                 ....                                              ..                                                       .  _                           ... — 

Technical  and  Bibliographic  Not«s/Not««  techniquM  et  bibliographiquas 

Thee 

1 

toth« 

The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 

L'Institut  a  microfilm^  le  meilleur  exemplaire 

original  ccpy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this 

qu'll  lui  a  6tA  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 

copy  wirtlch  may  be  bibliographicaily  unique. 

de  cet  exemplaire  qui  sont  peut-Atre  uniques  du 

which  may  alter  any  of  the  Images  in  the 

point  de  v.  )  bibllographlque,  qui  peuvent  modifier 

reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 

une 

Image  reprodulte,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 

Thei 

the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checlced  below. 

modification  dans  la  mAthode  normale  de  fllmage 

possi 

sont  indiqu6s  ci-dessous. 

of  th( 
filmir 

1 — 1    Coloured  covers/ 

Couverture  de  couieur 

•^— 

Coloured  pages/ 

Pages  de  couieur 

Origi 

rn    Covers  damaged/ 

1 — 1    Couverture  endommagie 

1 

Pages  damaged/ 

begir 
theic 

Pages  endommagies 

sion. 

Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaur^  et/ou  pelliculAe 

-^ 

Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 

other 
first  1 

Pages  restaurtes  et/ou  pelllcul6es 

sion, 
or  iiii 

Cover  title  missing/ 

Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 

y 

Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 

\0W      9W9% 

Pages  dAcolorAes,  tachetAes  ou  piquAes 

1      1    Coloured  maps/ 

1 — 1   Cartes  gAographiques  en  couieur 

— 

Pages  detached/ 

^Pl-.^     1 

Pages  d6tach6es 

The  1 
shall 

Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  biacit)/ 
1— J    Encre  de  couieur  (i.e.  autre  que  bieue  ou  noire) 

• 

Showthrough/ 

TINU 
whic 

Transparence 

Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 
Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couieur 

Quality  of  print  varies/ 

Maps 

HiffAi 

Quaiit*  inigaie  de  I'impression 

UITIVI 

entirt 

begir 

Bound  with  other  material/ 
-     ReliA  avec  d'autres  documents 

Includes  supplementary  material/ 

right 

Comprend  du  materiel  supplimentaire 

requi 
meth 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

— 

Only  edition  available/ 

Seule  Mition  disponible 

La  reiiure  serrde  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 

distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  intirieure 

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slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refiimed  to 

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1 1    appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 

ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 

Les  pages  totalement  ou  partieilement 

have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 

obscurcies  par  un  feuiiiet  d'errsta,  une  peiure. 

II  se  peut  que  certainos  pages  blanches  ajoutAes 

etc.,  ont  At*  filmAes  A  nouveau  de  fa^on  A 

lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte. 

obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 

mais,  lorsque  cela  6tait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 

pas  6t6  filmAes. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  supplimentaires; 

This  Item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  fllm6  au  taux  de  reduction  indiqu6  ci-dessous. 

10X  14X  18X  22X 


26X 


30X 


y 


12X 


16X 


20X 


24X 


28X 


32X 


Th«  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

National  Library  of  Canada 


L'exempiaire  fiimi  fut  reproduit  grAce  A  la 
g6n6rosit6  de: 

Bibliothdque  nationale  du  Canada 


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possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
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filming  contract  specifications. 


Las  images  suivantes  ont  6t6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  netteti  de  l'exempiaire  filmi,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprimie  sont  film6s  en  commenpant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
derniire  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  filmte  en  commenpant  par  la 
premidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  -^  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 


Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaftra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbols  — »>  signifie  "A  SUIVRE  ",  le 
symbole  V  signifie  "FIN". 


IVIaps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
filmte  d  des  taux  de  reduction  diff6rents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  cliche,  11  est  film6  d  partir 
de  I'angle  sup6rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite. 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  ndcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  m6thode. 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

POPULAR  NOVELS 

BY  MAY  AGNES  FLEMING. 


I.— WUY  EARLSCOURT'S  WIFE. 

a.    A  WONDERFUL  WOMAN. 

3.— A  TERRIBLE  SECRET, 

4.— NORINE'S  REVENGE. 

5.~A  MAD  MARRIAGE. 

6.— ONE  NIGHT'S  MYSTERY. 

7.— KATE  DANTON. 

8.-SILENT  AND  TRUE, 

9.— HEIR  OF  CHARLTON, 
10.— CARRIED  BY  STORM, 
IX.— LOST  FOR  A  WOMAN, 
la.— A  WIFE'S  TRAGEDY, 
13— A  CHANGED  HEART. 
14— PRIDE  AND  PASSION, 
x5— SHARING  HER  CRIME, 
x6— A  WRONGED  WIFE. 
17— MAUDE  PERCY'S  SECRET. 
18— THE  ACTRESS'  DAUGHTER, 
19.— THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  ISLE, 
ao.— THE  MIDNIGHT  QUEEN, 
ti.— EDITH  PERCIVAL. 
■J— WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 
33.— A  FATEFUL  ABDUCTIONc 
84.— THE  SISTERS  OF  TORWOOD.    (New). 

**MrB.  Fleming's  stories  are  growing  more  and  more  popular 
erery  day.     Their  delineations  of  character,  life-like  con- 
venations,  flashes  of  wit,  constantly  varying  scenes, 
and  deeply  interesting  plots,  combine  to  place 
their  author  in  the  very  first  rank  of  Modern 
Novelists." 

Elegantly  bound  in  cloth.  Price  50  cts  each,  and  sent 
FRBB  by  mail  on  receipt  of  price,  by 

G.  W.  Dillingham  Co.,  Publishers, 

NEW  YORK. 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE 


21  ISloDtl 


BT 


MAY  AGNES  FLEMING 


AUTHOR  OF 


**GUV  EARLSCOURT's  wife,"  "a  wonderful  woman,"  "KATE 


DANTON, 


"silent    and    true,"    "one    night's 


MYSTERY,"  "a  TERRIBLE  SECRET,"  "  A  MAD 


>> 


MARRIAGE,"    ETC.,   ETC. 


^. 


NEW  YORK. 

G.  W.  Dillingham  Co.^  Publishers 


COPYRIGHT,  1888^ 
BY 

STREET   AND   SMITH. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1897  by 

G.  W.  DILLINGHAM  CO., 
In  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washingt. 


on. 


CONTENTS. 


BnAPTBS  M 

I.  AttheTheatre 5 

II,  Mother  and  Son 15 

III.  "  I  love  it  as  if  it  were  my  own  ** 30 

IV.  Twelve  Years  After 28 

V.  The  Prodigal  Son 39 

VI.  Killing  the  Fatted  Calf 49 

VII.  Mademoiselle 56 

VIII.  Castle  Cliflfe 68 

IX.  Victoria  Regia 76 

X.  B^^rbara 83 

XL  The  First  Time ...  89 

XII.  The  Nun's  Grave 97 

XIII.  The  May  Queen 105 

XIV.  The  Warning 119 

XV.  The  Shadow  in  Black 130 

XVI.  The  Rose  of  Sussex 138 

XVII.  Off  with  the  Old  Love 148 

XVIIL  A  Du. if ul  Granddaughter 160 

XIX.  Back  Again 170 

XX.  Accepted..   183 

XXI.  Barbara's  Bridal  Eve 193 

XXII.  Asking  for  Bread  and  Receiving  a  Stone 205 

XXIIL  Victoria's  Bridal  Eve 214 

XXIV.  Where  the  Bridegroom  Was 224 

XXV.  TheStojy ajj 


4  GONTENTS. 

CHAPTBR  »A«I 

XXVI.  Diamond  cut  Diamond 243 

XXVII.  What  Lay  on  the  Nun's  Grav- 25a 

XXVIII.  A  House  of  Sorrow 262 

XXIX,  The  Prisoner 272 

XXX.  The  Sentence 279 

XXXI.  The  Turn  of  the  Wheel 283 

XXXII.  Retribution 292 

XXXIII.  The  Fall  of  the  Curtain 39S 


\_^ 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


CHAPTER  I. 


AT   THE    THEATER. 

The  theater  was  crowded.  The  parquette  was  one 
swaying  sea  of  human  faces.  The  galleries  were  vivid 
semicircles  of  eyes,  blue,  black,  brown,  and  gray  ;  and 
the  boxes  and  the  upper  tiers  were  rapidly  filling,  for  was 
not  this  the  benefit  night  of  Mademoiselle  Vivia  ?  and  had 
not  all  the  theater-going  world  of  London  been  half  mad 
about  Mademoiselle  Vivia  ever  since  her  first  appearance 
on  the  boards  of  the Theater. 

Posters  and  play-bills  announced  it  her  benefit. 
Madam  Rumor  announced  it  her  last  appearance  on  any 
stage. 

There  were  wonderful  tales  told  about  this  same  Vivia, 
the  actress.  Her  beauty  was  an  undisputed  fact ;  so  was 
her  marveious  talent  in  her  profession  ;  and  her  icy  virtue 
was  a  household  word.  Every  one  in  the  house  prob- 
ably knew  what  was  to  be  known  of  her  history — how 
the  manager  of  the  house  stumbled  upon  her  accident- 
ally in  an  obscure,  third-rate  Parisian  play-house  ;  how, 
struck  by  her  beauty  and  talent,  he  had  taken  her  away, 
had  her  instructed  for  two  years,  and  how,  at  the  end  of 
that  time,  three  months  previous  to  this  particular  night, 
she  had  made  her  dibuf,  and  taken  the  good  people  of 
London  by  storm.  Gouty  old  dukes  and  apoplectic  earls, 
had  knelt  in  dozens  at  her  feet,  with  offers  of  magnificent 
settlements,  superb  diamonds,  no  end  of  blank  checks, 
carriages,  and  horses,  and  a  splendid  establishment,  and 
been  spumed  for  their  pains. 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


Mademoiselle  Vivia  had  won,  during  her  professional 
career,  something  more  than  admiration  and  love,  the 
respect  of  all,  young  and  old.  And  yet  that  some  gos- 
sipping  lady,  Madam  Rumor,  whispered  low,  that  the 
actress  had  managed  to  lose  her  heart  after  all. 

Madam  Rumor  softly  insinuated,  that  a  young  noble- 
man, marvelously  handsome  to  look  upon,  and  marvel- 
ously  rich  to  back  it,  had  laid  his  heart,  hand,  and  name 
most  honorably  and  romantically  at  her  f  -ir  feet ;  but 
people  took  the  whisper  for  what  it  was  worth,  and  were 
a  little  dubious  about  believing  it  implicitly.  No  one 
was  certain  of  anything ;  and  yet  the  knowing  ones 
raised  their  glasses  with  a  peculiar  smile  to  a  certain  stage- 
box  occupied  by  three  young  men,  and  with  an  inward 
conviction  that  the  secret  lay  there.  One  of  the  three 
gentlemen  sitting  in  it — a  large,  well-made,  good-looking 
personage  of  thirty  or  so — was  sweeping  the  house  him- 
self, lorgnette  in  hand,  bowing,  and  smiling,  and  criticis- 
ing. 

"And  there  comes  that  old  ogre,  the  Marquis  of  Devon, 
rouged  to  the  eyes  ;  and  that  stiff  ant:^diluvian  on  his 
arm,  all  pearl-powder  and  pearls,  false  ringlets  and  mora 
rouge,  is  his  sister.  There  goes  that  oily  little  cheat, 
Sylvester  Sweet,  among  the  swells,  as  large  as  life ;  and 
there's  Miss  Blanche  Chester  with  her  father.  Pretty 
little  thing,  isn't  she,  Lisle  ?  " 

The  person  thus  addressed — a  very  tall,  very  thin,  very 
pale,  and  very  insipid-looking  young  person,  most  styl- 
ishly got  up,  regardless  of  expense,  leaned  forward,  and 
stared  out  of  a  pair  of  very  dull  and  very  expressionless 
gray  eyes,  at  an  exceedingly  pretty  and  graceful  girl. 

"Aw,  yes!  Very  pretty,  indeed!"  he  lisped,  with  a 
languid  drawl;  "and  has  more  money,  they  say,  than 
she  knows  what  to  do  with.  Splendid  catch,  eh  ?  But 
look  there.  Who  are  those  ?  By  Jove  !  what  a  hand- 
some woman  I " 

The  attention  of  Lord  Lisle — for  the  owner  of  the  dull 
eyes  and  lantern  jaws  was  that  distinguished  gentleman 
— had  been  drawn  to  a  party  who  had  just  entered  the 
box  opposite.  They  were  two  ladies,  three  gentlemen, 
and  a  little  child,  and  Sir  Roland  Cliffe.  The  first  speaker 
leaning  over  to  see,  opened  his  eyes  very  wide,  with  a 
low  whistle  of  astonishment. 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUB. 


ssional 

VQ,  the 
ne  gos- 
lat  the 

noble- 
iiarvel- 
1  name 
2t  ;  but 
id  were 
^Jo  one 
g  ones 
\  stage- 
inward 
le  three 
looking 
se  him- 
criticis- 

Devon, 

on  his 

id  mora 

1  cheat, 

and 

Pretty 

very 
st  styl- 
rd,  and 
ionless 
irl. 

with  a 
than 
But 
hand- 


? 


he  dull 
tleman 
red  the 
lemen, 
ipeaker 
with  a 


"Such  a  lovely  face  I  Such  a  noble  head!  Such  a 
prand  air  ! "  raved  young  Lord  Lisle,  whose  heart  was  as 
mflammable  as  a  lucifer  match,  and  caught  fire  as  easily. 

Sir  Roland  raised  his  shoulders  and  eyebrows  together 
and  stroked  his  flowing  beard. 

' '  Which  one  ?  "  he  coolly  asked  ;  '  *  the  beautiful  blonde, 
or  the  jolly  brunette  ?  " 

"The  lady  in  pink  satin  and  diamonds  I  Such  splen- 
did eyes !  Such  a  manner  I  Such  grace  I  She  might  be 
a  princess  !  " 

Hear  .g  this  the  third  occupant  of  the  box  leaned  for- 
ward also,  from  the  lazy  recumbent  position  he  had 
hitherto  indulged  in,  and  glanced  across  the  way.  He 
looked  the  younger  of  the  two — slender  and  boyish — and 
evidently  not  more  than  nineteen  or  twenty,  wearing  the 
undress  uniform  of  a  lieutenant  of  dragoons,  which  set 
off  his  eminently  handsome  face  and  figure  to  the  best 
advantage.  He,  too,  opened  his  large  Saxon  blue  eyes 
slightly,  as  they  rested  on  the  object  of  Lord  Lisle's 
raptures,  and  exchanged  a  smile  with  Sir  Roland  Cliffe. 

The  lady  thus  unconsciously  apostrophized  and  stared 
at  was  lying  back  in  her  chair,  and  fanning  herself  very 
much  at  her  ease.  It  was  a  blonde  face  of  the  purest 
type  ;  the  skin,  satin-smooth  and  white ;  the  blue  veins 
scarcely  traceable  under  the  milkwhite  surface  ;  the  oval 
cheeks  tinged  with  the  faintest  shade  of  rose,  deepening 
into  vividness  in  the  thin  lips.  The  eyes  were  large,  blue, 
and  bright — very  coldly  bright,  though ;  the  eyebiows, 
light  and  indistinct ;  and  the  hair,  which  was  of  flaxen 
fairness,  was  rolled  back  from  the  beautiful  face,  ct  la 
Marie  Stuart. 

Light  hair,  fair  blue  eyes,  and  colorless  complexion 
usually  make  up  rather  an  insipid  style  of  prettiness  ;  but 
this  lady  was  not  at  all  insipid.  The  eyes,  placed  close 
together,  had  a  look  of  piercing  intentness  ;  the  thin  lips, 
decidedly  compressed,  had  an  air  of  resolute  determina- 
tion and  from  the  crown  of  her  flaxen  head  to  the  sole 
of  her  dainty  foot,  she  looked  as  high  and  haughty  as  any 
lady  in  the  land. 

Her  dress  was  pale  rose  satin,  with  a  profusion  of  rare 
old  point,  yellow  with  age,  and  precious  as  rubies. 
Diamonds  ran  like  a  river  of  light  round  the  beautiful 
arched  neck,  and  blazed  on  the  large,  snow-white,  rounded 


(' 


, 


'i  ' 


I  WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 

arms.  Her  fan  was  of  gold  and  ebony,  and  marabout 
feathers  ;  and  she  managed  it  with  a  hand  like  Hebe's 
own.  One  dainty  foot,  peeping  out  from  under  the  rosy 
skirt,  showed  the  arched  instep  and  tapering  ankle  ;  and, 
to  her  fingers's  tips,  she  looked  the  lady.  Her  age  it  was 
impossible  to  guess,  for  old  Time  deals  gallantly  with 
those  flaxen-hatred,  pearly  skinned  beauties,  and  Lord 
Lisle  could  not  have  told,  for  his  life,  whether  to  set  her 
down  as  twenty  or  thirty.  She  certainly  did  not  look 
girlish  ;  and  her  figure,  though  tall,  and  slight,  and  deli- 
cate, was  unmistakably  matured  ;  and  then  her  style  of 
dress,  and  the  brilliant  opera-cloak  of  scarlet  and  white, 
slipping  off  her  shoulders,  was  matured,  too. 

She  and  her  companion  formed  as  striking  a  contrast 
as  could  be  met  with  in  the  house.  For  the  latter  was  a 
pronounced  brunette,  and  a  very  full-blown  brunette  at 
that,  with  lazy  rolling  black  eyes  ;  a  profusion  of  dead- 
black  hair,  worn  in  brpids  and  bandeaux,  and  entwined 
with  pearls.  Her  large  and  showy  person  was  arrayed 
in  slight  mourning  ;  but  her  handsome,  rounded,  high- 
colored  face  was  breaking  into  smiles  every  other  instant, 
as  her  lazj''  ey^s  strayed  from  face  to  face,  as  she  bent  to 
greet  her  friends. 

A  lovely  little  boy  of  some  six  years,  richly  dressed, 
with  long  golden  curls  falling  over  his  shoulders,  and 
splendid  dark  eyes  straying  like  her  own  around  the  house, 
leaned  lightly  against  her  knee.  They  were  mother  and 
son,  though  they  looked  little  like  it  ;  and  Mrs.  Leicester 
Cliffe  was  a  buxom  widow  of  five-and-twenty.  The  black 
roving  eyes  rested  at  last  on  the  opposite  box,  and  the 
incessant  smile  came  over  the  Dutch  face  as  she  bowed 
to  one  of  the  gentlemen — Sir  Roland  Cliffe. 

"  How  grandly  she  sits  ! — how  beautiful  she  is  !  "  broke 
out  Lord  Lisle,  in  a  fresh  ecsta.sy.  "Who  in  the  world  is 
she,  Sir  Roland  !  " 

"You  had  better  ask  my  beloved  nephew  here,"  said 
Sir  Roland,  M'ith  a  careless  motion  toward  the  young 
officer ;  "  and  ask  him,  at  the  same  time,  how  he  would 
like  you  for  a  step-father." 

Lord  Lisle  stared  from  one  to  the  other,  and  then  at 
the  fair  lady,  aghast. 

' '  Why — how — you  don't  mean  to  say  that  it  is  Lady 
Agnes  Shirley ! " 


-  ■  ,1  •', 

*    -it 


(i         I 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE.  9 

"But  I  do,  though  I  Is  it  possible,  Lisle,  that  you,  a 
native  of  Sussex  yourself,  have  never  seen  my  sister  I  " 

"  I  never  have  I  "  exclaimed  Lord  Lisle,  with  a  look  of 
hopeless  amazement;  "and  that  is  really  your  mother, 
Shirley  ?  " 

The  lieutenant  of  dragoons,  who  was  sitting  in  such  a 
position  that  the  curtain  screened  him  completely  from 
the  audience,  while  it  commanded  a  full  view  of  the  stage, 
nodded  with  a  half-laugh,  and  Lord  Lisie's  astonished 
bewilderment  was  a  sight  to  see. 

"But  she  is  so  young;  she  does  not  look  over 
twenty." 

"  She  is  eight  years  older  than  I,  and  I  am  verging  on 
thirty,"  said  Sir  Roland,  taking  out  a  penknife  and  begin- 
ning to  pare  his  nails;  "but  those  blondes  never  grow 
old.     What  do  you  think  of  the  black  beauty  beside  her  ?  " 

"She  is  fat !  "  said  Lord  Lisle,  with  gravity. 

"My  dear  fellow,  don't  apply  that  term  to  a  lady ;  say 
plump,  or  inclined  to  embonpoint !  She  is  rather  of  the 
Dutch  make,  I  confess,  but  we  can  pardon  that  in  a 
widow,  and  you  must  own  she's  a  splendid  specimen  of 
the  Low  Country,  Flemish  style  of  loveliness.  Paul 
Rubens,  for  instance,  would  have  gone  mad  about  her  ; 
perhaps  you  have  never  noticed,  though,  as  you  do  not 
much  affect  the  fine  arts,  that  all  his  Madonnas  and 
Venuses  have  the  same  plentiful  supply  of  blood,  and 
brawn,  and  muscle  that  our  fair  relative  yonder  rejoices 
in." 

'  *  She  is  your  relative,  then  ? " 

"  Leicester  Cliflfe,  rest  his  soul !  was  my  cousin.  That 
is  her  son  and  heir,  that  little  shaver  beside  her — fine 
little  fellow,  isn't  he  ?  and  a  Cliffe,  every  inch  of  him. 
What  are  you  thinking  of,  Cliffe  ?  " 

"Were  you  speaking  tome?  "  said  the  lieutenant,  look- 
ing up,  abstractedly. 

"Yes.  I  want  to  know  what  makes  you  so  insuffer- 
ably stupid  to-night  ?  What  are  you  thinking  of,  man — 
Vivia  ? " 

The  remark  might  be  nearer  the  truth  than  the  speaker 
thought,  for  a  slight  flush  rose  to  the  girl-like  cheek  of 
Lieutenant  Cliffe  Shirley. 

"  Nonsense  I  I  was  half  asleep,  I  believe.  I  wish  the 
curtain  were  up,  and  the  play  well  over." 


1  , 


.  I 


I 


,1  I 


19 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


'*  I  have  heard  that  this  's  Vivia's  last  night,"  remarked 
Lord  Lisle ;  "  and  that  she  is  about  to  be  married^  or 
something  of  that  sort.  How  is  it,  Sir  Roland  ?  As  you 
know  everything,  you  must  know." 

"  I  don't  know  that,  at  all  events;  but  he  is  a  lucky 
man,  whoever  gets  her.  Ah,  what  a  pretty  little  thing  it 
is  !  By  Jove  !  I  never  see  her  without  feeling  inclined  to 
go  on  my  knees,  and  say —  Ah  !  Sweet,  old  fellow,  how 
are  you  ? " 

This  last  passage  in  the  noble  baronet's  discourse  was 
not  what  he  would  say  to  Mile.  Vivia,  but  was  addressed 
to  a  gentleman  who  had  forced  his  way  with  some  diffi- 
culty throjgh  the  crowd,  and  now  stood  at  the  door. 

Mr.  Sweet  was  not  a  handsome  man,  but  he  had  the 
most  smiling  and  beaming  expression  of  countenance 
imaginable.  He  was  of  medium  size,  inclined  to  be  an- 
gular and  sharp  at  the  joints,  with  a  complexion  so  yellow 
as  to  induce  the  behef  that  he  was  suffering  from  chronic 
jaundice.  His  hair,  what  there  was  of  it,  was  much  the 
color  of  his  face,  but  he  had  nothing  in  that  line  worth 
speaking  of;  his  eyes  were  small  and  twinkling,  and 
generally  half  closed  ;  and  he  displa5"'^d,  like  the  bloom- 
ing relic  of  the  late  lamented  Leicester  Cliffe,  the  sweet- 
est and  most  ceaseless  of  smiles. 

His  waistcoat  was  of  a  bright  canary  tint,  much  the 
color  of  his  face  and  hair ;  lemon-colored  gloves  were  on 
his  hands ;  and  the  yellow  necktie  stood  out  in  bold  re- 
lief against  the  whitest  and  glossiest  of  shirt  collars.  He 
wore  larp'e  gold  studs,  and  a  large  gold  breastpin,  a  large 
gold  watch-cL  i.in,  with  an  anchor,  and  a  heart,  and  a 
bunch  of  seals,  ^  nd  a  select  assortment  of  similar  small 
articles  of  jewelry  dangling  from  it,  and  keeping  up  a 
musical  tinkle  as  he  walked.  He  had  small  gold  ear-rings 
in  his  ears,  and  would  have  had  them  in  his  nose,  too, 
doubtless,  if  any  one  had  been  good  enough  to  set  him  a 
precedent.  As  it  was,  he  was  so  bright,  and  so  smiling, 
and  so  glistening,  with  his  yellow  hair,  and  face,  and 
waistcoat,  and  necktie,  and  jewelry,  that  he  fairly  scin- 
tillated all  over,  and  would  have  made  you  wink  to  look 
at  him  by  gaslight. 

"Hallo,  Sweet!"  "How  do.  Sweet.?"  "Come  in. 
Sweet,"  greeted  this  smiling  vision  from  the  three  young 
men. 


il 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


II 


And  Mr.  Sweet,  beaming  all  over  with  smiles,  and  jing- 
ling his  seals,  did  come  in,  and  ook  a  seat  between  the 
handsome  young  lieutenant  and  his  uncle,  Sir  Roland. 

The  orchestra  was  crashing  out  a  noisy  overture,  but 
at  this  moment  a  bell  tinkled,  and  when  it  ceased  the  cur- 
tain shriveled  up  to  the  ceiling  and  disclosed  Henry  VIII. , 
a  very  stout  gentleman,  in  tlesh-colored  tights,  scarlet 
velvet  doublet,  profusely  ornamented  with  tinsel  and  gold 
lace,  wearing  a  superb  crown  of  pasteboard  and  gilt  paper 
Dn  his  royal  head.  Catherine  of  Aragon  was  there,  too, 
Very  grand,  in  a  long  trailing  dress  of  purple  cotton 
velvet,  and  blazing  all  over  with  brilliants  of  the  purest 
glass,  kneeling  before  her  royal  husband,  amid  a  brilliant 
assembly  of  gentlemen  in  tights  and  mustaches,  and 
ladies  in  very  long  dresses  and  paste  jewels,  in  the  act  of 
receiving  a  similar  pasteboard  crown  from  the  fat  hands 
of  the  king  himself. 

The  play  was  the  "Royal  Blue-Beard,"  a  sort  of  half 
musical  burlesque,  and  though  the  audience  laughed  a 
good  deal  and  applauded  a  little  over  the  first  act,  their 
enthusiasm  did  not  quite  bring  the  roof  down  ;  for  Vivia 
was  not  there.  Her  role  was  Anne  Boleyn  ;  and  when  in 
tne  second  act  that  beautiful  and  most  unfortunate  lady 
appeared  among  the  maids  of  honor,  to  win  the  fickle- 
hearted  monarch  by  her  smiles,  a  cheer  greeted  her  that 
made  the  house  ring. 

She  was  their  pet,  their  favorite  ;  and  standing  among 
her  painted  companions,  all  tinseled  and  spangled,  she 
looked  queen-rose  and  star  over  all.  Petite  and  fairy- 
like in  figure,  a  clear,  colorless  complexion,  lips  vividly 
red,  eyes  jetty  black  and  bright  as  stars,  shining  black 
hair,  falling  in  a  profusion  of  curls  and  waves  far  below 
her  waist,  and  with  a  smile  like  an  angel !  She  was  dressed 
all  in  white,  with  flowers  in  her  hair  and  on  her  breast  ; 
and  when  she  came  floating  across  the  stage  in  her  white, 
mist-like  robes,  her  pure,  pale  face,  uplifted  dark  eyes, 
and  waving  hair,  crowned  with  water-lilies,  she  looked 
more  like  a  fairy  by  moonlight  than  a  mere  creature  of 
flesh  and  blood. 

What  a  shout  it  was  that  greeted  her !  how  gentle  and 
sweet  was  the  smile  that  answered  it  !  and  how  celestial 
she  looked  with  that  smile  on  her  lips  ! 

Sir  Roland  leaned  over,  with  flashing  eyes. 


12 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


nil 


"  It  is  a  fairy  ;  it  is  Titania  !  It  is  Venus  herself  !  "  he 
cried,  enraptured.  "I  never  saw  her  look  so  beautiful 
before  in  my  life  !  " 

Lord  Lisle  stared  at  him  in  his  dull,  vacant  way  ;  and 
Mr.  Sweet  smiled  and  stole  a  sidelong  glance  at  the  lieu- 
tenant, and  this  nonchalant  young  warrior  lounged  easily 
back  on  his  seat  and  watched  the  silver-shining  vision 
with  philosophical  composure. 

The  play  went  on.  The  lovely  Anne  wins  the  slightly 
fickle  king  with  her  "becks,  and  nods,  and  wreathed 
smiles,"  and  triumphs  over  the  unfortunate  lady  in  the 
purple  train.  Then  comes  her  own  brief  and  dazzling 
term  of  glory  ;  then  blue-eyed  Jane  Seymour  conquers 
the  conqueress,  and  Mistress  Anne  is  condemned  to  die. 

Throughout  the  whole  thing,  Vivia  was  superb.  Vivia 
always  was  ;  but  in  the  last  scene  of  all  she  surpassed 
herself.  From  the  moment  when  she  told  the  executioner, 
with  a  gay  laugh,  that  she  heard  he  was  an  expert,  and 
that  she  had  but  a  small  neck,  to  the  moment  she  was 
led  forth  to  die,  she  held  the  audience  spell-bound. 

When  the  curtain  rose  on  the  last  scene,  the  stage  was 
hung  in  black,  the  lights  burned  dim,  the  music  waxed 
faint  and  low,  and,  dressed  in  deepest  mourning,  and 
looking  by  contrast  deadly  pale,  she  laid  her  beautiful 
head  on  the  block.  At  the  sound  of  the  falling  ax,  as  the 
curtain  fell,  a  thrill  ran  through  every  heart ;  and  the  four 
gentlemen  in  the  stage-box  bent  over,  and  gazed  with 
their  hearts — such  as  they  were — in  their  eyes. 

A  moment  of  profound  silence  was  followed  by  so  wild 
a  tempest  of  applause  that  the  domed  roof  rang,  and 
"Vivia  !  "  "Vivia  !  "  shouted  a  storm  of  voices,  enthusi- 
astically. 

Once  again  she  came  before  them,  pale  and  beautiful 
in  her  black  robes  and  flowing  hair,  and  bowed  her  ac- 
knowledgments with  the  same  lovely  smile  that  had  won 
all  their  hearts  long  before.  A  small  avalanche  of  bou- 
quets and  wreaths  came  fluttering  down  on  the  stage, 
and  three  of  the  occupants  of  the  stage-box  flung  their 
offerings,  too.  A  wreath  of  white  roses,  clasped  by  a 
great  pearl,  from  Sir  Roland  ;  a  bouquet  of  splendid  hot- 
house exotics  from  Lord  Lisle  ;  and  a  cluster  of  jasmine 
flowers  from  Lieutenant  Shirley,  which  he  took  from  his 
buttonhole  for  the  purpose.     M'-.  Sweet  had  nothing  to 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


13 


;lf !  "  he 
leautiful 

ly  ;  and 
the  lieu- 
;d  easily 
g  vision 

!  slightly 
A'reathed 
y  in  the 
dazzling 
conquers 
d  to  die. 
b.     Vivia 
surpassed 
scutioner, 
:pert,  and 
t  she  was 
nd. 

stage  was 

sic  waxed 

ning,    and 

■  beautiful 

ax,  as  the 

.d  the  four 

azed  with 


3y  so  wild 
rang,  and 
s,  enthusi- 

,  beautiful 
zed  her  ac- 
kt  had  won 
fhe  ofbou- 
1  the  stage, 
I  flung  their 
Isped  by  a 
[lendid  hot- 
lof  jasmine 
lok  from  his 
nothing  to 


cast  but  his  eyes  ;  and  casting  those  optics  on  the  actress, 
he  saw  her  turn  her  beautiful  face  for  one  instant  toward 
their  box  ;  the  next,  lift  the  jasmine  flowers  and  raise 
them  to  her  lips,  and  the  next — vanish. 

"She  took  your  flowers,  Shirley — she  actually  did," 
cried  Lord  Lisle,  with  one  of  his  blank  stares,  "and  left 
mine,  that  were  a  thousand  times  prettier,  just  where 
they  fell !  " 

"Very  extraordinary,"  remarked  Mr.  Sweet,  with  one 
of  his  bright  smiles  and  sidelong  glances.  "  But  what  do 
all  the  good  folks  mean  by  leaving  ?  I  thought  there  was 
to  be  a  farce,  or  ballet,  or  something." 

"So  there  is;  but  as  they  won't  see  Vivia,  they  don't 
care  for  staying.  And  I  think  the  best  thing  we  can  do 
is  to  follow  their  example.  What  do  you  say  to  coming 
along  with  us.  Sweet .''  We  are  going  to  have  a  small 
supper  at  my  rooms  this  evening." 

Mr.  Sweet,  with  many  smiles,  made  his  acknowledg- 
ments, and  accepted  at  once  ;  and,  rising,  the  four  passed 
out,  and  were  borne  along  by  the  crowd  into  the  open 
air.  Sir  Roland's  coach  was  in  waiting,  and  being  joined 
by  three  or  four  other  young  men,  they  were  soon  dash- 
ing at  break-neck  speed  toward  a  West  End  hotel. 


No  man  in  all  London  ever  gave  such  pe/th  soupers  as 
Sir  Roland  Cliffe,  and  no  one  ever  thought  of  declining 
his  invitations.  On  the  present  occasion  the  hilarity 
waxed  fast  and  furious.  The  supper  was  superb,  the 
claret  deliciously  cool  after  the  hot  theater,  the  sherry 
like  liquid  gold,  and  the  port  fifty  years  old  at  least.  All 
showed  their  appreciation  of  it,  too,  by  draining  bumper 
after  bumper,  until  the  lights  of  the  room,  and  everything 
in  it,  were  dancing  hornpipes  before  their  eyes — all  but 
Mr.  Sweet  and  Lieutenant  Shirley.  Mr.  Sweet  drank 
sparingly,  and  had  a  smile  and  an  answer  for  everybody  ; 
and  the  lieutenant  scarcely  ate  or  drank  at  all,  and  was 
abstracted  and  silent. 

"Do  look  at  Shirley !"  hiccoughed  Lord  Lisle,  whose 
eyes  M'ere  staring  fishily  out  of  his  head,  and  whose  hair 
and  shirt-front  were  splashed  with  wine;  "he  looks  as 
sol — yes — as  solemn  as  a  coffin  !  " 

"Hallo,  Cliffe,  my  boy  !  don't  be  the  death's-head  at 


;  I 


U 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


the  feast !  Here,"  shouted  Sir  Roland,  with  flushed  face, 
waving  his  glass  over  his  head ;  "  here,  lads,  is  a  bumper 
to  Vivia  ! " 

"Vivia!"  ••Vivia!"  ran  from  lip  to  lip.  Even  Mr. 
Sweet  rose  to  honor  the  toast ;  but  Lieutenant  Shirley, 
with  wrinkled  brows  and  flashing  eyes,  sat  still,  and 
glanced  round  at  the  servant  who  stood  at  his  elbow  with 
a  salver  and  a  letter  thereon.  ^ 

'  *  Note  for  you,  Lieutenant, "  insinuated  the  waiter.  ' '  A 
little  boy  brought  it  here.  Said  there  was  no  answer 
expected,  and  left." 

"  I  say,  Cliffe,  what  have  you  there }  A  dun  ? "  shouted 
impetuous  Sir  Roland. 

• '  With  your  permission,  I  will  see, "  rather  coldly  re- 
sponded the  young  officer,  breaking  the  seal. 

Mr.  Sweet,  sitting  opposite,  kept  his  eyes  intently  fixed 
on  his  face,  and  saw  it  first  flush  scarlet,  and  then  turn 
deathly  white. 

•  •  That's  no  dun,  I'll  swear  !  "  again  lisped  Lord  Lisle. 
"  Look  at  the  writing  !  A  fairy  could  scarcely  trace  any- 
thing so  light.  And  look  at  the  paper — pink-tinted  and 
gilt-edged.     The  fellow  has  got  a  billet-doux/" 

"  Who  is  she,  Shirley  ?  "  called  half  a  dozen  voices. 

But  Lieutenant  Shirley  crumpled  the  note  in  his  hand, 
and  rose  abruptly  from  the  table. 

"Gentlemen — Sir  Roland,  you  will  have  the  goodness 
to  excuse  me.  I  regret  extremely  being  obliged  to  leave 
you.    Good-night !  " 

He  had  advanced  to  the  door,  opened  it  and  disappeared 
before  any  of  the  company  had  recovered  their  maudlin 
senses  sufficiently  to  call  him  back. 

Mr.  Sweet  always  had  his  senses  about  him ;  but  that 
shining  gentleman  was  wise  in  his  generation,  and  he 
knew  when  Lieutenant  Shirley's  cheek  paled,  and  brow 
knitted,  and  eye  flashed,  he  was  not  exactly  the  person 
to  be  trifled  with  ;  so  he  only  looked  after  him,  and  then 
at  his  wine,  with  a  thoughtful  smile.  He  would  have 
given  all  the  spare  change  he  had  about  him  to  have 
donned  an  invisible  cap,  and  walked  after  him  through 
the  silent  streets,  dimly  lit  by  the  raw  coming  morning, 
and  to  have  jumped  after  him  into  the  cab  Lieutenant 
Shirley  hailed  and  entered. 

On  he  flew  through  the  still  streets,  stopping  at  last  be- 


' 


flushed  face, 
,  is  a  bumper 

Even  Mr. 
tiant  Shirley, 
sat  still,  and 
is  elbow  with 

B  waiter.    "A 
IS  no  answer 

Lin  ? "  shouted 

ler  coldly  re- 
1. 

intently  fixed 
ind  then  turn 

ed  Lord  Lisle. 
:ely  trace  any- 
ink-tinted  and 

pen  voices. 
;  in  his  hand, 

the  goodness 
)liged  to  leave 

id  disappeared 
their  maudlin 

him ;  but  that 
ation,  and  he 
led,  and  brow 
tly  the  person 
him,  and  then 
2  would  have 
him  to  have 
him  through 
ning  morning, 
ab  Lieutenant 

)ing  at  last  be- 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


15 


fore  a  quiet  hotel  in  a  retired  part  of  the  city.  A  muffled 
figure — a  female  figure — wrapped  in  a  long  cloak,  and 
closely  veiled,  stood  near  the  ladies*  entrance,  shivering 
under  her  wrappings  in  the  chill  morning  blast.  In  one 
instant,  Lieutenant  Shirley  had  sprung  out ;  in  another, 
he  had  assisted  her  in,  and  taken  the  re'. is  himself ;  and 
the  next,  he  was  riding  away  with  break-neck  speed, 
with  his  face  to  the  rising  sun. 


CHAPTER  IL 


MOTHER  AND   SON. 


A  BROAD  morning  sunbeam,  stealing  in  through  satin 
curtains,  fell  on  a  heavy  tapestry  carpet,  on  rosewood 
furniture,  pretty  pictures,  easy-chairs  and  ottomans,  and 
on  a  round  table,  bright  with  damask,  and  silver,  and 
china,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  handsome  parlor. 
The  table  was  set  for  breakfast,  and  the  coffee,  and  the 
rolls,  and  the  toast,  and  the  cold  tongue,  were  ready  and 
waiting  ;  but  no  one  was  in  the  room,  save  a  spruce 
waiter,  in  a  white  jacket  and  apron,  who  arranged  the 
eggs,  and  tongue,  and  toast  artistically,  and  set  up  two 
chairs  vis-h-vis,  previous  to  taking  his  departure. 

As  he  turned  to  'go,  the  door  opened,  and  a  lady  en- 
tered— a  lady  tall  and  graceful,  proud  and  handsome  with 
her  fair  hair  combed  back  from  her  high-bred  face.  She 
wore  a  neatly  fitting  robe  of  silk  and  velvet,  with  lace 
drapery,  and  Lady  Agnes  Shirley  managed  to  look  in  this 
superb  toilet  as  stately  and  haughty  as  a  duchess. 

Her  large  light-blue  eyes  wandered  round  the  room  and 
rested  on  the  obsequious  young  gentleman  in  the  white 
jacket  and  apron. 

"Has  my  son  not  arrived  yet?"  she  said,  in  a  voice 
that  precisely  suited  her  face — sweet,  and  cold,  and  clear. 

"No,  my  lady;  shall  I " 

''You  will  go  downstairs,  and  when  he  comes,  you 
will  ask  him  to  step  up  here  directly. " 

There  was  a  quick,  decided  rap  at  the  door.     Lady 


i< 


i6 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


\ 


I*     f 


Agnes  turned  from  the  window,  to  which  she  had  walked, 
as  the  waiter  opened  it,  and  admitted  Lieutenant  Cliffe 
Shirley. 

*'  My  dearest  mother  !  " 

"  My  dear  boy  !  "  And  the  proud,  cold  eyes  lighted  up 
with  loving  pride  as  he  kissed  her.  "I  thought  I  was 
never  destined  to  see  you  again." 

"Let  me  see.  It  is  just  two  months  since  I  left  Clifton- 
lea — a  frightful  length  of  time,  truly. " 

**My  dear  Cliffe,  those  two  months  were  like  two  years 
to  me  ! " 

Lieutenant  Cliffe,  standing  with  the  morning  sunshine 
falling  on  his  laughing  face,  made  her  a  courtly  bow. 

"Ten  thousand  thanks  for  the  compliment,  mother 
mine.  And  was  it  to  hunt  up  your  scapegrace  son,  that 
you  journeyed  all  the  way  to  London  ? " 

"Yes."  She  said  it  so  gravely,  that  the  smile  died 
away  on  his  lips,  as  she  moved  in  her  graceful  way  across 
to  the  table.  "  Have  you  had  breakfast?  But  of  course 
you  have  not ;  so  sit  down  there,  and  I  will  pour  out 
your  coffee  as  if  you  were  at  home." 

The  young  man  sat  down  opposite  her,  took  his  napkin 
from  its  ring,  and  spread  it  with  most  delicate  precision 
on  his  knees. 

There  was  a  resemblance  between  mother  and  son, 
though  by  no  means  a  striking  one.  They  had  the  same 
blonde  hair,  large  blue  eyes,  and  fair  complexions — the 
same  physical  Saxon  type ;  for  the  boast  of  the  Cliffes 
was,  that  not  one  drop  of  Celtic  or  Norman  blood  ran  in 
their  veins — it  was  a  pure,  unadulterated  Saxon  stream,  to 
be  traced  back  to  days  long  before  the  Conqueror  entered 
England.  But  Lady  Agnes'  haughty  pride  and  grand 
manner  were  entirely  wanting  in  the  laughing  eyes  and 
gay  smile  of  her  only  son  and  heir,  Cliffe, 

"When  did  you  come.''"  he  asked,  as  he  took  his  cup 
from  her  ladyship's  hand. 

"  Yesterday.     Did  not  my  note  tell  you  .?  " 

"  True  !     I  forgot.      How  long  do  you  remain  ?  " 

Lady  Agnes  buttered  her  roll  with  a  grave  face. 

"That  depends  !  "  she  quietly  said. 

"On  what?" 

"On  you,  my  dear  boy." 

"  Oh,  in  that  case,"  said  the  lieutenant,  with  his  bright 


II 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


she  had  walked, 
lieutenant  Cliffo 


[  eyes  lighted  up 
thought  I  was 

lice  I  left  Clifton- 
re  like  two  years 

lorning  sunshine 
courtly  bow. 
)liment,    mother 
»egrace  son,  that 

;  the  smile  died 
iceful  way  across 
?  But  of  course 
I  will  pour  out 

■,  took  his  napkin 
elicate  precision 

lother  and  son, 
y  had  the  same 
Dmplexions — the 
of  the  Cliffes 
lan  blood  ran  in 
Saxon  stream,  to 
)nqueror  entered 
Dride  and  grand 
ghing  eyes  and 


17 


he  took  his  cup 


u  r 


?" 


remain  ? 
ave  face. 


with  his  bright 


smile,  "you  will  certainly  remain  until  the  end  of  the 
London  season.  Does  Charlotte  return  the  same  time 
you  do  ? " 

"Who  told  you  Charlotte  was  here  at  all  ?  "  said  Lady 
Agnes,  looking  at  him  intently. 

'*  I  saw  her  with  you  last  night  at  the  theater,  and  little 
Leicester,  too  ? " 

"Were  you  in  the  box  with  Sir  Roland,  and  the  other 
two  gentlemen,  last  night  ?" 

"Yes.  Don't  look  so  shocked,  my  dear  mother.  How 
was  I  to  get  through  all  that  crowd  to  your  box  ?  and  be- 
sides, I  was  engaged  to  Sir  Roland  for  supper  at  his  rooms  ; 
we  left  before  the  afterpiece.  By  the  way,  I  wonder  you 
were  not  too  much  fatigued  with  your  journey,  both  of 
you,  to  think  of  the  theater." 

"I  was  fatigued,"  said  Lady  Agnes,  as  she  slowly 
stirred  her  coffee  with  one  pearl-white  hand,  and  gazed 
intently  at  her  son  ;  ' '  but  I  went  solely  to  see  that  actress 
— what  do  you  call  her  ?  Vivia,  or  something  of  that  sort, 
is  it  not  ? " 

'  *  Mademoiselle  Vivia  is  her  name, "  said  the  young  man, 
blushing  suddenly,  probably  because  at  that  moment  he 
took  a  sip  of  coffee  scalding  hot. 

Lady  Agnes  shrugged  her  shapely  shoulders,  and  curled 
her  lip  in  a  little,  slighting,  disdainful  way  peculiar  to 
herself. 

"A  commonplace  little  thing  as  ever  I  saw.  They  told 
me  she  was  pretty ;  but  I  confess  when  I  saw  that  pallid 
face  and  immense  black  eyes,  I  never  was  so  disappointed 
in  my  life.  I  don't  fancy  her  acting  either — it  is  a  great  * 
deal  too  tragic  ;  and  I  confess  I  am  at  a  loss  to  know 
why  people  rave  about  her  as  they  do." 

"Bad  taste,  probably,"  said  her  son,  laughing,  and  with 
quite  recovered  composure  ;  "since  you  differ  from  them, 
and  yours  is  indisputably  perfect.  But  your  visit  to  the 
theater  was  not  thrown  away  after  all,  for  you  must  know 
you  made  a  conquest  the  first  moment  you  entered.  Did 
you  see  the  man  who  sat  beside  Sir  Roland,  and  stared  so 
hard  at  your  box  ? " 

* '  The  tall  young  gentleman  with  the  sickly  face  ?    Yes. " 

"That  was  Lord  Henry  Lisle — you  know  the  Lisies  of 
Lisletown  ;  and  he  fell  desperately  in  love  with  you  at 
first  sight" 


m 


1. 


ill 


I 


j^ 


'  I 

I 


I     I 


I  \ 


i8 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


"Oh,  nonsense!  don't  be  absurd,  ClifFe!  I  want  yon 
to  be  serious  this  morning,  and  talk  sense." 

"But  it's  a  fact,  upon  my  honor!  Lisle  did  nothing 
but  rave  about  you  all  the  evening,  and  protested  you 
were  the  prettiest  woman  in  the  house." 

"  Bah  !  Tell  me  about  yourself,  Cliffe — what  have  you 
been  doing  for  the  last  two  months  ?  " 

"Oh,  millions  of  things  !  Been  on  parade,  fought  like 
a  hero  in  the  sham  fights  in  the  park,  covered  myself  with 
glory  in  the  reviews,  made  love,  got  into  debt,  went  to 
the  opera,  and " 

"To  the  theater  !  "  put  in  Lady  Agnes,  coolly. 

"  Certainly,  to  the  theater  !  I  could  as  soon  exist  with- 
out my  dinner  as  without  that  !  " 

"  Precisely  so  !  I  don't  object  to  theaters,  in  the  least," 
said  Lady  Agnes,  transfixing  him  with  her  cold,  blue  eyes, 
"  but  when  it  comes  to  actresses,  it  is  going  a  little  too 
far.  Cliffe,  what  are  those  sto  ies  that  people  are  whis- 
pering about  you,  and  that  the  birds  of  the  air  have  borne 
even  to  C'-ftonlea?" 

' '  Stories  about  me  !  Haven't  the  first  idea.  What  are 
they?" 

"Don't  equivocate,  sir!  Do  you  know  what  has 
brought  me  up  to  town  in  such  haste  ? " 

"You  told  me  a  few  moments  back,  if  my  memory 
serves  me,  that  '\  was  to  see  me." 

"Exactly!  and  to  make  you  give  me  a  final  answer 
on  a  subject  we  have  often  discussed  before." 

"  And  what  may  that  be,  pray  ?  " 

"  Matrimony  !  "  said  Lady  Agnes,  in  her  quiet,  decided 
way. 

Lieutenant  Shirley,  with  his  eyes  fixed  intently  on  his 
plate,  began  cutting  a  slice  of  toast  thereon  into  minute 
squares,  with  as  much  precision  as  he  had  used  in  spread- 
ing his  napkin. 

"Ah,  just  so!  A  very  pleasant  subject,  if  you  and  I 
could  only  take  the  same  view  of  it,  which  we  don't. 
Do  you  want  to  have  a  daughter-in-law,  to  quarrel  with 
at  Castle  Cliffe,  so  badly  that  you've  come  to  the  city  to 
bring  one  home?" 

"One  thing  I  don't  want,  Lieutenant  Shirley,"  said 
Lady  Agnes,  somewhat  sharply,  "is  to  see  my  son  make 
a  sentimental  fool  of  himself !     Your  Cousin  Charlotte  is 


'  1 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQTTE. 


'9 


here,  and  I  want  you  to  marry  her  and  go  abroad.  I've 
been  wishing  to  go  to  Rome  myself  for  the  last  two  or 
three  months,  and  it  will  be  an  excellent  opportunity  to 
go  with  you.' 

"Thank  you,  mother!  But,  at  the  same  time,  I'm 
afraid  you  and  my  cousin  Charlotte  must  hold  me  ex- 
cused !  "  said  the  lieutenant,  in  his  cool  manner. 

"What  are  your  objections,  sir?  " 

"Their  name  is  legion.  In  the  first  place,"  said  the 
young  gentleman,  beginning  to  count  on  his  fingers, 
"she  is  five  years  older  than  I  am  ;  secondly,  she  is  fat — 
couldn't  possibly  marry  any  one  but  a  sylph ;  thirdly, 
she  is  a  widow  ;  the  lady  I  raise  to  the  happiness  of  Mrs. 

S ,  must  give  me  a  heart  that   has  had  no  former 

lodger  ;  fourthly,  she  has  a  son,  and  I  don't  precisely 
fancy  the  idea  of  becoming,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  papa 
to  a  tall  boy  of  six  years ;  and  fifthly,  and  lastly,  and 
conclusively,  she  is  my  cousin,  and  I  like  her  as  such, 
and  nothing  more,  and  wouldn't  marry  her  if  she  was  the 
last  woman  in  the  world  (  " 

Though  this  somewhat  emphatic  refusal  was  delivered 
in  the  coolest  and  most  careless  of  tones,  there  was  a  de- 
termined fire  in  his  blue  eyes  that  told  a  different  story. 

Two  crimson  spots,  all  unusual  there,  were  burning  on 
the  lady's  fair  cheeks  ere  he  ceased,  and  her  own  eyes 
flashed  blue  flame,  but  her  voice  was  perfectly  calm  and 
clear.  Lady  Agnes  was  too  great  a  lady  ever  to  get  into 
so  vulgar  a  thing  as  a  passion. 

"You  refuse?" 

"  Most  decidedly  !  Why,  in  Heaven's  name,  my  dear 
mother,  do  you  want  me  to  take  (with  reverence  be  it 
said)  that  great  slug  for  a  wife  !  " 

"And  pray  what  earthly  reasons  are  there  why  you 
should  not  take  her?  She  is  young  and  handsome,  im- 
mensely rich,  and  of  one  of  the  first  families  in  Derby- 
shire !     It  would  be  the  best  match  in  the  world  !  " 

"Yes,  if  I  wanted  to  make  a  manage  de  convenance.  I 
am  rich  enough  as  it  is,  and  Madam  Charlotte  may  keep 
her  guineas,  and  her  black  eyes,  and  her  tropical  person 
for  whomsoever  she  pleases.  Not  all  the  wealth  of  the 
Indies  would  tempt  me  to  marry  that  passionate,  full- 
blown, high-blooded  Cleopatra ! " 

One  singular  trait  of  Lieutenant  Shirley  was,  that  he 


'M 


i     n 


;:  i 


I    { 


' 


I    I 


'I 
1^  ■ 

t  I'  t 


I 


! 


r  !i 


I". 


I 


20 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


said  the  strongest  and  most  pungent  things  in  the  coolest 
and  quietest  of  tones.  The  fire  in  his  lady  mother's  eyes 
was  fierce,  the  spots  on  her  cheeks  hot  and  flaming,  and 
in  her  voice  there  was  a  ringing  tone  of  command. 

"  And  your  reasons  !  " 

*'  I  have  given  you  half  a  dozen  already,  dear  mother  !  " 

"They  are  not  worth  thinking  of;  there  must  be  a 
stronger  one  !  Lieutenant  Shirley,  I  demand  to  know 
what  it  is  ?  " 

"My  good  mother,  be  content!     I  hate  this  subject 
Why  cannot  we  let  it  rest." 

*  •  It  shall  never  rest  now  !     Speak,  sir,  I  command  !  " 

"  Mother,  what  do  you  wish  to  know  ?  " 

"There  is  another  reason  for  this  obstinate  refusal— 
what  is  it  ?  " 

"You  had  better  not  ask  me — you  will  not  like  to 
know  !  " 

"Out  with  it!" 

"The  very  best  reason  in  the  world,  then,"  he  said, 
with  his  careless  laugh.     "  I  am  married  already ! " 


CHAPTER  III. 


(( 


I   LOVE    IT  AS   IF   IT  WERE   MY  OWN. 


.  " 


A  STORMY  March  morning  was  breaking  over  London. 
The  rain  and  sleet,  driven  by  the  wind,  beat  and  clamored 
against  the  windows,  flew  furiously  through  the  streets, 
and  out  over  grave-yards,  brick-fields,  marshes,  and 
bleak  commons,  to  the  open  country,  where  wind  and 
sleet  howled  to  the  bare  trees,  and  around  cottages,  as  if 
the  very  spirit  of  the  tempest  was  on  the  "rampage." 

Most  of  these  cottages,  out  among  brick-yards  and 
ghastly  wastes  of  marsh,  had  their  doors  secured,  and 
their  shutters  closely  fastened,  as  if  they,  too,  like  their 
inmates,  were  fast  asleep,  and  defied  the  storm.  But 
there  was  one  standing  away  from  the  rest,  on  the  hill- 
side, whose  occupants,  judging  from  appearances,  were 
certainly  not  sleeping.     Its   two    front   windows   were 


\_L. 


WEDDED  FOU  PIQUE. 


21 


the  coolest 
)ther's  eyes 
aming,  and 
lUnd. 

r  mother !  " 

must  be  a 

d  to  know 

his  subject 

mmand !  " 

te  refusal — 

not  like  to 


n,"  he  said, 
ady  1 " 


Iver  London. 
Ind  clamored 
the  streets, 
jarshes,    and 
fe  wind  and 
ittages,  as  if 
Impage." 
k-yards  and 
ecured,   and 
o,  like  their 
Istorm.     But 
on  the  hill- 
ances,  were 
idows  were 


^ 


bright  with  the  illumination  of  fire  and  candle,  and  their 
light  flared  out  red  and  lurid  far  over  the  desolate  wastes. 
The  shutters  were  open,  tu».  blinds  up,  and  the  vivid 
glare  would  have  been  a  welcome  sight  to  any  storm- 
beaten  traveler,  had  such  been  out  that  tempestuous 
March  day  ;  but  nobody  was  foolhardy  enough  to  be 
abroad  at  that  dismal  hour  of  that  dismal  morning  ;  and 
the  man  who  sat  before  the  great  wood  fire  in  the  prin- 
cipal room  of  the  cottage,  though  he  listened  and  watched, 
like  sister  Anne  on  the  tower-top,  for  somebody's  coming, 
that  somebody  came  not,  and  he  and  his  matin  medita- 
tions were  left  undisturbed. 

He  was  a  young  man,  sunburned  and  good-looking — 
a  laborer  unmistakably,  though  dressed  in  his  best,  and 
with  his  chair  drawn  up  close  to  the  fire,  and  a  boot  on 
each  andiron,  he  drowsily  smoked  a  short  clay  pipe. 

The  room  was  as  neat  and  clean  as  any  room  could  I 
the  floor  faultlessly  sanded,  the  poor  furniture  deftly  ar- 
ranged, and  all  looked  cozy  and  cheerful  in  the  ruddy 
firelight. 

There  was  nobody  else  in  the  room,  and  the  rattling  of 
the  rain  and  sleet  against  the  windows,  the  dull  roar  of 
the  fire,  and  the  sharp  chirping  of  a  cricket  on  the  hearth, 
were  the  only  sounds  that  broke  the  silence.  Yes,  there 
was  another ;  once  or  twice,  while  the  man  sat  and 
smoked,  and  nodded,  and  listened  to  the  storm,  there  had 
been  the  feeble  cry  of  an  infant ;  a  .d  at  such  times  he 
had  started  and  looked  uneasily  at  a  door  behind  him, 
opening  evidently  into  another  room.  As  a  little  Dutch 
clock  on  the  mantelpiece  chimed,  slowly,  six,  this  door 
opened,  and  a  young,  fair-haired,  pretty  woman  came 
out.  Her  eyes  were  red  and  swollen  with  weeping,  and 
she  carried  a  great  bundle  of  something  rolled  in  flannel 
carefully  in  her  arms. 

The  man  looked  up  inquisitively,  and  took  the  pipe  out 
of  his  mouth. 

'  *  Well  ?  "  he  pettishly  asked. 

"Oh,  poor  dear,  she  is  gone  at  last !  "  said  the  woman, 
breaking  out  into  a  fresh  shower  of  tears.  "  She  has  just 
departed!  "  I  feel  fired,  and  if  you  will  take  the  baby  I 
will  try  to  sleep  now,'  she  says,  and  then  she  kisses  it 
with  her  own  pretty,  ioving  smile  ;  and  I  takes  it  up,  and 
she  just  tnrns  her  face  to  the  wall  and  dies.     Oh,  poor 


:i 


^i|l 


l!! 


|( 


•,  I 


In 


I ' 


I  I 


N        i  M 


.  I 


32 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


dear  younq^  lady  !  "  with  another  tender-hearted  tempest 
of  sobs. 

"How  uncommon  sudden!"  said  the  man,  looking 
mediti'i lively  at  the  fire.      "  Is  that  the  baby  ?  " 

"Yes,  the  pretty  little  dear  I  Do  look  how  sweetly  it 
sleepb." 

The  young  woman  unrolled  the  bundle  of  flannel,  and 
displayed  an  infant  of  very  tender  age  indeed — inasmuch 
as  it  could  not  have  been  a  week  old — simmering  therein. 
It  was  very  much  like  any  other  young  baby  in  that  fresh 
and  green  stage  of  existence,  having  only  one  peculiarity, 
that  it  was  the  merest  trifle  of  a  baby  ever  was  seen.  A 
decent  wax-doll  would  have  been  a  giantess  beside  it. 
The  mite  of  a  creature,  void  of  hair,  and  eyebrows,  and 
nails,  sleeping  so  quietly  in  a  sea  of  white  flannel,  might 
have  gone  into  a  quart-mug,  and  found  the  premises  too 
extensive  for  it  at  that.  John  looked  at  it  as  men  do  look 
at  very  new  babies,  with  a  solemn  and  awe-struck  face. 

"  It's  a  very  small  baby,  isn't  it?"  he  remarked,  in  a 
subdued  tone,  "  I  should  be  afraid  to  lay  my  finger  on 
it,  for  fear  of  crushing  it  to  death.  It's  a  girl,  you  told 
me,  didn't  you  ? " 

"  To  be  sure  it's  a  girl,  bless  its  little  heart  I  Will  you 
come  and  look  at  the  young  lady,  John  ? " 

John  got  up  and  followed  his  wife  into  the  inner  room. 
It  was  a  bedroom  ;  like  the  apartment  they  had  left,  very 
neat  ;  but,  unlike  that,  very  tastefully  furnished.  The 
floor  had  a  pretty  carpet  of  green  and  white  ;  its  windows 
were  draped  with  white  and  green  silk.  A  pretty  toilet- 
table,  under  a  large  gilt-framed  mirror,  with  a  handsome 
dressing-case  thereon,  was  in  one  corner ;  a  gUitar  and 
music-rack  in  another  ;  a  lounge  with  green  silk  cushions 
in  a  third  ;  and,  in  a  fourth,  a  French  bedstead,  all  draped 
and  covered  with  white.  Near  the  bed  stood  a  round 
gilded  stand,  strewn  with  vials,  medicine  bottles,  and 
glasses  ;  beside  it,  a  great  sleepy-hollow  of  an  arm-chair, 
also  cushioned  with  green  silk ;  and  on  the  bed  lay  the 
mistress  and  owner  of  all  these  pretty  things,  who  had 
left  them,  and  all  other  things  earthly,  forever. 

A  shaded  lamp  stood  on  the  dressing-table.  The 
woman  took  it  up  and  held  it  so  that  its  light  fell  full  on 
the  dead  face — a  lovely  face,  whiter  than  alabaster  ;  a 
slight  smile  lingering  round  the  parted  lips  ;  the  black 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


n 


id  tempest 

in,  looking 

sweetly  it 

iannel,  and 
—inasmuch 
•ing  therein, 
in  that  fresh 
peculiarity, 
as  seen.     A 
iS  beside  it. 
ebrows,  and 
mnel,  might 
Diemises  too 
men  do  look 
itruck  face, 
narked,  in  a 
iiy  finger  on 
irl,  you  told 

1 1    Will  you 

inner  room, 
lad  left,  very 
lished.     The 
its  windows 
pretty  toilet- 
a  handsome 
a  gu.tar  and 
silk  cushions 
ad,  all  draped 
ood  a  round 
bottles,   and 
in  arm-chair, 
bed  lay  the 
igs,  who  had 

-table.      The 
-ht  fell  full  on 
alabaster  ;  a 
|)s  :  the  black 


lashes  lying  at  rest  on  the  pure  cheek  ;  the  black,  arched 
eyebrows  sharply  traced  against  the  white,  smooth  brow, 
stamped  with  the  majestic  seal  of  death.  A  profusion  ot 
curlins^  hair,  of  purplish  black  luster,  streamed  over  the 
white  pillow  and  her  own  delicate  white  night-robe.  One 
arm  was  under  her  head,  as  she  had  often  lain  m  life  ;  and 
the  other,  which  was  outside  of  the  clothes,  was  already 
colli  and  stiff. 

Man  and  woman  p;azed  in  awe — neither  spoke.  The 
still  rnnjesty  of  the  face  hushed  them  ;  and  the  man,  after 
looking  for  a  moment,  turned  and  walked  out  on  tiptoe, 
as  if  afraid  to  wake  the  calm  sleeper.  The  woman  drew 
the  siicet  reverently  over  the  face,  laid  the  sleeping  baby 
amoniL,'  the  soft  cushions  of  the  lounge,  followed  her  hus- 
band to  the  outer  room,  and  closed  the  door.  He  resumed 
his  seat  and  looked  seriously  into  the  fire  ;  and  she  stood 
beside  him,  with  one  hand  resting  on  his  shoulder,  and 
cryinp^  softly  still. 

"  Poor,  dear  lady  !  To  think  that  she  should  die  away 
from  all  her  friends  like  this,  and  she  so  young  and  beau- 
tiful, too  !  " 

"  Young  and  beautiful  folks  must  die,  as  well  as  old  and 
ugly  ones,  when  their  time  comes, "said  the  man,  with  a 
touch  of  philosophy.  "  But  this  one  is  uncommon  hand- 
some, no  mistake.  And  so  you  don't  know  her  name, 
Jenny  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Jenny,  shaking  her  head,  thoughtfully; 
"her  and  him — that's  the  young  gentleman,  you  know — 
came,  bright  and  early,  one  morning  in  a  coach  ;  and  he 
said  he  had  heard  we  were  poor  folks  and  lately  married, 
and  would  not  object  to  taking  a  lodger  for  a  little  while,  if 
she  paid  well  and  gave  no  trouble.  Of  course,  I  was  glad 
to  jump  at  the  offer ;  and  he  gave  me  twenty  guineas  to 
begin  with,  and  told  me  to  have  the  room  furnished,  and 
not  say  anything  about  my  lodger  to  anybody.  The 
young  lady  seemed  to  be  ill  then,  and  was  shivering  with 
cold  ;  but  she  was  patient  as  an  angel,  and  smiled  and 
thanked  me  like  one  for  everything  I  did  for  her.  And 
that's  the  whole  story ;  and  the  young  gentleman  has 
never  been  here  since." 

"And  that's — how  long  ago  is  that.?  " 

"Three  weeks  to-morrow.  You  just  went  to  London 
that  very  morning,  yourself,  you  remember,  John." 


: 


\ 


|l>it> 


s. 

n 


t;    ' 


ill 


i;^ 


•/ 


I' 


■  i  I 


I     I 


\     I 

(;  * 

u    ; 
i 


34 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


"I  remember,"  said  John;  "and  my  opinion  is,  the 
young  gentleman  is  a  scamp,  and  the'young  lady  no 
better  nor  she  ought  to  be." 

'  *  I  don't  believe  it, "  retorts  his  wife,  with  spirit.  ' '  She's 
a  angel  in  that  bedroom,  if  ever  there  was  one  !  Only 
yesterday,  when  the  doctor  told  her  she  was  a-dying,  she 
asked  for  pen  and  ink  to  write  to  her  husband,  and  she 
said  if  he  was  living  it  would  bring  him  to  her  before  she 
died  yet — poor,  dear  darling  !  "  ^ 

"  But  it  didn't  do  it,  though  !  "  said  John,  with  a  trium- 
phant grin  ;   "  and  I  don't  believe " 

Here  John's  words  were  jerked  out  of  his  mouth,  as  it 
were,  by  the  furious  gallop  of  a  horse  through  the  rain  ; 
and  the  next  moment  there  was  a  thundering  knock  at  the 
door  that  made  the  cottage  shake. 

John  sprang  up  and  opened  it,  and  there  entered  the 
dripping  form  of  a  man,  wearing  a  long  cloak,  and  with 
his  military  cap  pulled  over  his  face  to  shield  it  from  the 
storm.  Before  the  door  was  closed,  the  cloak  and  cap 
were  off,  and  the  woman  saw  the  face  of  the  handsome 
young  gentleman  who  had  brought  her  lodger  there.  But 
that  face  was  changed  now  ;  it  was  as  thin  and  bloodless 
almost  as  that  of  the  quiet  sleeper  in  the  other  room,  and 
there  was  something  of  fierce  intensity  in  his  eager  eyes. 

At  the  sight  of  him,  Jenny  put  her  apron  over  her  face, 
and  broke  out  into  a  fresh  shower  of  sobs. 

"Where  is  she?"  he  asked,  through  his  closed  teeth. 

The  woman  opened  the  bedroom  door,  and  he  followed 
her  in.  At  sight  of  the  white  shape  lying  so  dreadfully 
still  under  the  sheet,  he  '•ecoiled  ;  but  the  next  moment 
he  was  beside  the  bed.  Jenny  laid  her  hand  on  the  sheet 
to  draw  it  down  ;  he  laid  his  there,  too  ;  the  chill  of  death 
struck  to  his  heart,  and  he  lifted  her  hand  away. 

"  No  !  "  he  said,  hoarsely  ;  "let  it  be.  When  did  she 
die?" 

"Not  half  an  hour  ago,  sir." 

"You  had  a  doctor?  " 

"Yes,  sir;  he  came  every  day.  He  came  last  night, 
but  he  could  do  nothing  for  her." 

"  Is  that  man  in  the  next  room  your  husband  ?  " 

"Yes,  your  honor. " 

"Tell,  him,  then,  to  go  and  purchase  a  coffin,  and 
order   the   sexton  to   have   the   grave   prepared  by  this 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


25 


[lion  is,  the 
ng  lady  no 

irit.  "She's 
one  !  Only 
a-dying,  she 
md,  and  she 
jr  before  she 

i 
vith  a  tnum- 

mouth,  as  it 
gh  the  rain  ; 
knock  at  the 

I  entered  the 
.ak,  and  with 
Id  it  from  the 
ioak  and  cap 
he  handsome 
jr  there.  But 
and  bloodless 
Lcr  room,  and 
is  eager  eyes, 
over  her  face, 

losed  teeth, 
id  he  followed 
so  dreadfully 
next  moment 
d  on  the  sheet 
;  chill  of  death 
way. 
^hen  did  she 


me  last  night, 
Dand?" 

a   coffin,   and 
;pared  by  this 


evening.     In  twenty-four  hours  I  leave  England  forever, 
and  I  must  see  her  laid  in  the  grave  before  I  depart." 

"And  the  baby,  sir  ?"  said  the  woman,  timidly,  half- 
frightened  by  his  stern,  almost  harsh  tone.  "  Will  you 
not  look  at  it?     Here 'it  is."' 

"No  .'"said  the  young  man  fiercely.  "Take  it,  and 
begone  !  " 

Jenny  snatched  up  the  baby,  and  fled  in  dismay  ;  and 
the  young  man  sat  down  beside  his  dead,  and  laid  his 
face  on  the  pillow  where  the  dead  face  lay.  Rain  and 
hail  still  lashed  the  windows,  the  wind  shrieked  in  dismal 
blasts  over  the  bare  brick-fields  and  bleak  common.  Morn- 
ing was  lifting  a  dull  and  leaden  eye  over  the  distant 
hills,  and  the  new-born  day  gave  promise  of  turning  out 
very  sullen  and  dreary. 

"  Blessed  is  the  corpse  that  the  rain  rains  on  !  "  and  so 
Jenny  thought, as  she  laid  the  baby  on  her  own  bed,  and 
watched  her  husband  plunging  through  the  rain  and  wind 
on  his  doleful  errand. 

The  dark,  sad  hours  stole  on,  and  the  solitary  watcher 
in  the  room  of  death  kept  his  vigil  undisturbed.  Break- 
fast and  dinner  hour  passed,  and  Jenny's  hospitable  heart 
ached  to  think  that  the  young  gentleman  had  not  a 
mouthful  to  eat  all  the  blessed  time ;  but  she  would  not 
have  taken  broad  England  and  venture  to  open  that  door 
uninvited  again.  And  so,  while  the  storm  raged  without, 
the  lamp  flared  on  the  dressing-table,  the  dark,  wintry 
day  stole  on,  and  the  londy  watcher  sat  there  still. 

It  was  within  an  hour  of  dusk,  and  Jenny  sat  by  the 
fire,  singing  a  soft  lullaby  to  the  baby,  when  the  door 
opened,  and  he  stood  before  her,  like  a  tall,  dark  ghost. 

"Mas  the  coffin  come?  "  he  asked. 

And  Jenny  started  up,  and  nearly  dropped  the  baby, 
with  a  shriek,  at  the  hoarse  and  hollow  sound  of  his  voice. 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir  ;  there  it  is  !  " 

The  dismal  thing  looked  black  and  ominous  as  it  rested 
near  the  opposite  wall.  He  just  glanced  at  it,  and  then 
back  again  at  her. 

"  And  the  grave  has  been  dug? " 

"Yes,  sir;  and,  if  you  please,  the  undertaker  has  sent 
his  hearse,  and,  on  account  of  the  rain,  it  is  waiting  now 
in  the  shed.  My  John  is  there  too.  I  will  call  him  in, 
sir,  if  you  please." 


i 


% 


"'    Wjlr^ttihiwLMi.fc*^-/_I?^     ^ 


III 


26 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


S« 


I  'I 


He  made  a  gesture  in  the  .affirmative,  and  Jenny  flew 
out  to  do  her  errand. 

When  she  returned  with  her  John,  the  young-  man  as- 
sisted him  in  laying  the  dead  form  within  the  coffin,  and 
they  both  carried  it  to  the  door  and  placed  it  reverently 
within  the  hearse. 

"You  will  come  back,  sir,  won't  you,?"  ventured 
Jenny,  standing  at  the  door,  and  weeping  incessantly 
behind  her  apron. 

"  Yes,  go  on  !  " 

The  hearse  started,  and  John  and  the  stranger  followed 
to  the  last  resting-place  of  her  lying  within.  It  was  all 
dreary,  the  darkening  sky,  the  drenched  earth,  the  gloomy 
hearse,  and  the  two  solitary  figures  following  silently 
after,  with  bowed  heads,  through  the  beating  storm. 

Luckily  the  church-yard  was  near.  The  sexton,  at 
sight  of  them,  ran  off  for  the  clergyman,  who,  shivering 
and  reluctant,  appeared  on  the  scene  just  as  the  coffin  was 
lowered  to  the  ground. 

"Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust !  "  The  beautiful  burial- 
service  of  the  English  Church  was  over.  The  coffin 
was  lowered,  and  the  sods  went  rattling  drearily  down  on 
the  lid. 

The  young  man  stood  bareheaded,  his  auburn  hair 
fluttering  in  the  wind,  and  the  storm  beating  unheeded 
on  his  head.  John  was  bareheaded,  too,  much  against 
his  will  ;  but  the  clergyman  ran  home  with  unclerical 
haste  the  moment  the  last  word  was  uttered  ;  and  the 
sexton  shoveled  and  beat  down  the  sods  with  professional 
indifference. 

Just  then,  fluttering  in  the  wind,  a  figure  came  through 
the  leaden  twilight.  The  young  man  lifted  his  gloomy 
eyes,  and  the  new-comer  his  hat.  He  had  yellow  hair, 
and  a  jaundice  complexion,  and  his  overcoat  was  a  sort 
of  yellowish  brown.     In  short,  it  was  Mr.  Sylvester  Sweet. 

"  Good-morning,  Lieutenant  Shirley  !  Who  in  the 
world  would  expect  to  meet  you  here  ?  Not  lost  a  friend, 
I  hope." 

"Have  the  goodness  to  excuse  me,  Mr.  Sweet.  I  wish 
to  be  alone,"  was  the  cold  and  haughty  reply. 

And  Mr.  Sweet,  with  an  angel  smile  rippling  all  over 
his  face,  left  accordingly,  and  disappeared  in  the  dismal 
gloaming. 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


'1 


d  Jenny  fleiw 

ing  man  as- 
3  coffin,  and 
it  reverently 

? "  ventured 
■  incessantly 


iger  followed 
It  was  all 
1,  the  gloomy 
ving  silently 
g  storm, 
[le  sexton,  at 
ho,  shivering 
the  coffin  was 

sautiful  burial- 
.  The  coffin 
;arily  down  on 

',  auburn  hair 
ing  unheeded 
much  against 
ith  unclerical 
3red  ;  and  the 
;h  professional 

came  through 
d  his  gloomy 

yellow  hair, 

oat  was  a  sort 

rlvester  Sweet. 

Who    in    the 
)t  lost  a  friend, 


Sweet 

Dly. 

pling  all  over 
in  the  dismal 


^ 


I  wish     I 


With  the  last  sod  beaten  down,  the  sexton  departed, 
and  John  went  slowly  to  the  gate,  to  wait,  in  wet  im- 
patience, for  the  young  gentlem'an.  Standing  at  his  post, 
he  saw  that  same  young  gentleman  kneel  down  on  the 
soaking  sods,  lean  his  arm  on  the  rude  wooden  cross  the 
sexton  had  thrust  at  the  head  of  the  grave,  and  lay  his 
face  thereon. 

So  long  did  he  kneel  there,  with  the  cold  March  rain 
beating  down  on  his  uncovered  head,  that  John's  teeth 
were  chattering,  and  an  inky  darkness  was  falling  over 
the  city  of  the  dead.  But  he  rose  at  last,  and  came 
striding  to  his  side,  passed  him  with  tremendous  sweeps 
of  limb,  and  was  standing,  dripping  like  a  water-god,  be- 
fore the  kitchen  fire  when  the  good  man  of  the  house 
entered. 

Jenny  was  in  a  low  chair,  with  the  baby  on  her  lap, 
still  sleeping — its  principal  occupation,  apparently — and 
he  looked  at  it  with  a  cold,  steady  glance,  very  like  that 
of  his  lady  mother. 

"lam  going  to  leave  England,"  he  said,  addressing 
them  both,  when  John  entered.  "  In  twenty-four  hours 
I  am  going  to  India,  and  if  I  should  never  come  back, 
what  will  you  do  with  that  child? " 

"Keep  it  always,"  said  Jenny,  kissing  it.  "Deaf 
little  thing  !     I  love  it  already  as  if  it  were  my  own  !  " 

"  If  I  live,  it  will  not  only  be  provided  for,  but  you  will 
be  well  paid  for  your  trouble.  You  can  take  this  as  a 
guarantee  of  the  future  ;  and  so,  good-bye  !  " 

He  dropped  a  purse  heavy  with  guineas  into  John's 
willing  palm  ;  then  going  over,  looked  at  the  sleeping 
infant,  with  a  cold,  set  face,  for  one  instant,  and  then, 
stooping  down,  touched  his  lips  lightly  to  its  velvet 
cheek  ;  and  then,  wrapping  his  cloak  closely  around  him, 
and  pulling  his  military  cap  far  over  his  brows,  he  went 
out  into  the  wild,  black  night. 

They  heard  his  horse's  hoofs  splashing  over  the  marshy 
common,  and  they  knew  not  even  the  name  of  the 
"marble  guest"  who  came  and  disappeared  as  mysteri- 
ously as  the  black  horseman  in  the  German  tale. 

And  so  the  world  went  on  its  course  !  In  her  far-ofif 
home,  amid  the  green  hills  and  golden  Sussex  downs,  sat 
a  lady,  whose  pride  was  so  much  stronger  than  her  love, 
that  by  her  own   act  she  had  made  herself  a  childless 


28 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


broken-hearted  woman.  Steaming  down  the  Thames,  in 
a  great  transport,  a  young  officer  stood,  with  folded  arms, 
watching  the  receding  shores  he  might  never  see  again, 
whose  love  was  so  much  stronger  than  his  pride,  that  he 
was  leaving  his  native  land  with  a  prayer  in  his  heart 
that  some  Sepoy  bullet  might  lay  him  dead  under  the  blaz- 
ing Indian  sky.  And,  sleeping  in  her  cottage  home,  all 
unconscious  of  the  destiny  before  her,  lay  the  little 
heiress. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


TWELVE    YEARS    AFTER. 


\. 


»'   ! 


!i. 


!^|. 


The  great  bell  of  Clifton  Cathedral  was  just  ringing  the 
hour  of  five.  The  early  morning  was  dim  with  hazy  mist, 
but  the  sky  was  blue  and  cloudless,  and  away  in  the  east 
a  crimson  glory  was  spreading,  the  herald  of  the  rising 
sun. 

Early  as  the  hour  was,  all  was  bustle  and  busy  life  in 
the  town  of  Cliftonlea.  You  would  have  thought,  had 
you  seen  the  concourse  of  people  in  High  Street,  it  was 
noon  instead  of  five  in  the  morning.  Windows,  too,  were 
opening  in  every  direction,  night-capped  heads  being 
popped  out,  anxious  glances  being  cast  at  the  sky,  and 
then  the  night-caps  were  popped  in  again,  the  windows 
slammed  down,  and  everybody  making  their  toilet,  eager 
to  be  out. 

Usually,  Cliftonlea  was  as  quiet  and  well-behaved  a 
town  as  any  in  England,  but  on  the  night  previous  to  this 
memorable  morning  its  two  serene  guardian  angels,  Peace 
and  Quietness,  had  taken  unto  themselves  wings  and 
flown  far  away.  The  clatter  of  horses  and  wheels  had 
made  night  hideous;  the  jingling  of  bells,  and  shouts  of 
children,  and  the  tramp  of  numberless  footsteps,  had 
awoke  the  dull  echoes  from  nightfall  till  day-dawn.  In 
short,  not  to  keep  any  one  in  suspense,  this  was  the  first 
day  of  the  annual  Cliftonlea  Races — and  Bartlemy  Fair, 
in  the  days  of  Henry  the  Eighth,  was  not  a  circumstance 
to  the  Cliftonlea  Races. 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


29 


Thames,  in 
folded  arms, 
r  see  again, 
•ide,  that  he 
in  his  heart 
der  the  blaz- 
ge  home,  all 
ly    the    little 


St  ringing  the 

ith  hazy  mist, 

ay  in  the  east 

of  the  rising 

id  busy  life  in 
thought,   had 
Street,  it  was 
)ws,  too,  were 
heads  being 
the  sky,   and 
the   windows 
r  toilet,  eager 

ell-behaved  a 
revious  to  this 
angels,  Peace 
es  wings  and 
.d  wheels  had 
and  shouts  of 
ootsteps,  had 
ay-dawn.     In 

was   the  first 
Bartlemy  Fair, 

circumstance 


n 


Nobody  in  the  whole  town,  under  the  sensible  and 
settled  age  of  thirty,  thought  of  eating  a  mouthful  that 
morning  ;  it  was  sacrilege  to  think  of  such  a  groveling 
matter  as  breakfast  on  the  first  glorious  day  ;  and  so  new 
coats  and  hats,  and  smart  dresses,  were  donned,  and  all 
the  young  folks  came  pouring  out  in  one  continuous 
stream  toward  the  scene  of  action. 

The  long,  winding  road  of  three  miles  between  Clifton- 
lea  and  the  race-course,  on  common  everyday  days,  was 
the  pleasantest  road  in  the  world — bordered  with  fragrant 
hawthorn  hedges,  with  great  waving  fields  of  grain  and 
closer  on  each  hand,  and  shadowed  here  and  there  with 
giant  beeches  and  elms.  But  it  was  not  a  particularly 
cool  or  tranquil  tramp  on  this  morning,  for  the  throng  of 
vehicles  and  foot-passengers  was  fearful,  and  the  clouds 
of  dust  more  frightful  still.  There  were  huge  refreshment 
caravans,  whole  troops  of  strolling  players,  gangs  of 
gypsies,  wandering  minstrels,  and  all  such  roving  vaga- 
bonds, great  booths  on  four  wheels,  carts,  drays,  wagons, 
and  every  species  of  conveyance  imaginable.  There  were 
equestrians,  too,  chiefly  mounted  on  mules  and  donkeys  ; 
there  were  jingling  of  bells,  and  no  end  of  shouting,  curs- 
ing, and  vociferating,  so  that  it  was  the  liveliest  morning 
that  road  had  known  for  at  least  twelve  months. 

There  rose  the  brightest  of  suns,  and  the  bluest  of  skies, 
scorching  and  glaring  hot.  The  volumes  of  dust  were 
awful,  and  came  rolhng  even  into  the  town  ;  but  still  the 
road  was  crowded,  and  still  the  cry  was,  "  They  come  !  " 
But  the  people  and  vehicles  which  passed  were  of  an- 
other nature  now.  The  great  caravans  and  huge  carts  had 
almost  ceased,  and  young  England  canie  flashing  along 
in  tandems,  and  dog-carts,  and  flies,  and  four-in-hands, 
or  mounted  on  prancing  steeds.  The  officers,  from  the 
Cliftonlea  barracks — dashing  dragoons,  in  splendid  uni- 
forms— flew  like  the  wind  through  the  dust,  and  sporting 
country  gentlemen  in  top  boots  and  jaunty  caps,  and 
fox-hunters  in  pink,  and  betting  men  and  blacklegs,  book 
in  hand,  followed,  as  if  life  and  death  depended  on  their 
haste. 

In  two  or  three  more  hours  came  another  change — 
superb  barouches,  broughams,  phaetons,  grand  carriages, 
with  coachmen  and  footmen  in  livery,  magnificent  horses, 
in  silver  harness,  rich  hammer-cloths,  with  coats  of  arms 


il 


ill; 


^j 


i 

f 

1 

1  " 

1i 

■  1 
>f  ■ 

1 

MM 


tmm 


i 


,:i( 


ill     '      iii^:" 


II  :;i 


Ml!  ' 


i\\U'' 


I  i, ' 


I,   '  t' 


(:■,!:! 


30 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


emblazoned  thereon,  came  rolling  splendidly  up,  filled 
with  gayly  dressed  ladies.  All  the  great  folks  for  fifty 
miles  round  came  to  theCliftonlea  Races;  even  the  Right 
Reverend,  the  Bishop  of  Cliftonlea,  deigned  to  come  there 
himself. 

And  the  scene  on  the  race-ground — who  shall  describe 
it?  The  circuses,  the  theaters,  the  refreshment  booths, 
the  numerous  places  of  amusement  and  traps  for  catching 
money ;  the  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  people  running 
hither  and  thither  over  the  green  sward  in  one  living  sea  ; 
the  long  array^of  carriages  drawn  up  near  the  race-ground, 
and  filled  with  such  dazzling  visions  of  glancing  silk  and 
fluttering  lace,  waving  plumes  and  beautiful  faces.  Then 
the  air  was  filled  with  music  from  the  countless  per- 
formers, making  up  a  diversified  concert,  not  unpleasant 
to  listen  to  ;  and  over  all  there  was  the  cloudless  blue 
sky  and  blazing  August  sun. 

A  group  of  officers  standing  near  the  course,  betting- 
books  in  hands,  were  discussing  the  merits  of  the  rival 
racers  and  taking  down  wagers.  Vivia,  owned  by  Sir 
Roland  Cliffe  of  Cliftonlea,  and  Lady  Agnes,  owned  by 
Lord  Henry  Lisle,  of  Lisleham,  were  the  favorites  that 
day. 

' '  Two  to  one  on  Vivia  I  "  cried  Captain  Douglas,  of  the 
Light  Dragoons. 

"Done!"  cried  a  brother  officer.  "I  am  ready  to 
back  the  Lady  Agnes  against  any  odds." 

The  bets  were  booked,  and  as  Captain  Douglas  put  his 
betting-book  in  his  pocket  with  a  smile  on  his  lip,  and  his 
quick  eye  glanced  far  and  wide,  he  suddenly  exclaimed : 

And  here  comes  the  Lady  Agnes  herself,  looking  stately 
as  a  queen  and  fair  as  a  lily,  as  she  always  does." 

"  Where  ?  "  said  his  superior  office,  old  Major  Warwick, 
looking  helplessly  round  through  his  spectacles.  "  I 
thought  Lady  Agnes  was  a  roan. " 

"I  don't  mean  the  red  mare, "said  Captain  Douglas, 
laughing,  "  but  the  real  Lady  Agnes  herself-'-Lady  Agnes 
Shirley.  There  she  sits,  like  a  princess  in  a  play,  in  that 
superb  pony-phaeton." 

"Handsomest  woman  in  Sussex,"  lisped  a  young  en- 
sign, "and  worth  no  end  of  tin.  That's  her  aephew, 
young  Shirley,  driving,  and  who  is  that  little  fright  in  the 
back  seat  ? " 


<(i 


LorJ 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


3t 


,  filled 
or  fifty 
i  Right 
,e  there 

[escribe 
booths, 
;atching 
running 
ing  sea  ; 
ground, 
silk  and 
i.     Then 
less  per- 
ipleasant 
,ess  blue 

,  betting- 
the  rival 
ed  by  Sir 
owned  by 
writes  that 

rlas,  of  the 

ready  to 

las  put  his 
ip,  and  his 
xclaimed : 
cing  stately 


Warwick, 


les 

»r 

acles.      "  A 

in  Douglas, 
Lady  Agnes 
lay,  in  that 

a  young  en- 
ler  »ephew, 
fright  in  the 


"That's  her  niece,  little  Maggie  Shirley,  and,  they  say, 
the  heiress  of  Castle  Cliffe. " 

"  How  can  that  be?  "  said  the  major.  "I  thought  the 
estate  was  entailed." 

"The  Shirley  estates  are,  but  the  castle  and  the  village 
adjoining  were  the  wedding-dower  of  Lady  Agnes  Cliffe 
when  she  married  Doctor  Shirley.  So,  though  the  Shirley 
property  is  strictly  entailed  to  the  nearest  of  kin,  Lady 
Agnes  can  leave  Castle  Cliffe  to  her  kitchen  maid  if  she 
likes." 

"  Has  she  no  children  of  her  own  ?  "  asked  the  major, 
who  was  a  stranger  in  Cliftonlea,  and  a  little  stupid  about 
pedigree. 

"  None  now  ;  she  had  a  son,  Cliffe  Shirley — splendid 
fellow  he  was,  too  I  He  was  one  of  us,  and  as  brave  as 
a  lion.  We  served  together  some  years  in  India.  I  re- 
member him  well.  There  was  not  a  man  in  the  whole 
regiment  who  would  not  have  died  for  him  ;  but  he  was 
a  discarded  son." 

* '  How  was  that  ?  Lady  Agnes  looks  more  like  an 
angel  than  a  vindictive  mother." 

"Oh,  your  female  angels  often  turn  out  to  have  the 
heart  of  Old  Nick  himself,"  said  Captain  Douglas,  com- 
placently stroking  his  mustache.  "  I  don't  mean  to  say 
she  has,  you  know  ;  but  those  Cliffes  are  infernally  proud 
people.  They  all  are.  I  have  known  some  of  their  dis- 
tant cousins,  and  so  on,  poor  as  Job's  turkey,  and  proud 
as  Lucifer.  Cliffe  Shirley  committed  that  most  heinous  of 
social  crimes — a  low  marriage.  There  was  the  dickens 
to  pay,  of  course,  when  my  lady  yonder  heard  it ;  and 
the  upshot  was,  the  poor  fellow  was  disinherited.  His 
wife  died  a  year  after  the  marriage ;  but  he  had  a  daughter. 
I  remembc  his  telling  me  of  her  a  thousand  times,  with 
the  stars  of  India  shining  down  on  our  bivouac.  Poor 
Cliffe  !  he  was  a  glorious  fellow  !  but  I  have  heard  he 
was  killed  since  I  came  home,  scaling  the  walls  of  Mona- 
goola,  or  some  such  place." 

*  *  Whom  did  he  marry  ?  " 

"  I  forget  now.  He  never  would  speak  of  his  wife  ;  but 
I  have  heard  she  was  a  ballet-dancer,  or  opera-singer,  or 
something  of  that  sort." 

'  *  All  wrong,"  said  a  voice  at  his  elbow  ;  and  there  stood 
Lord  Henry  Lisle,  tapping  his  boots  with  a  cane  and 


,1:  ij 

,11'     \ 


!M 


II  r 


3» 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


%r.  i 


i^l 


I   •!„ 


I  •ir;i'» 


H;i 


'!' 


l;!i,:t 


:i; : 


!:l' 


listeningf  intently.  "  I  know  the  whole  story.  She  was 
a  French  actress.  You've  seen  her  a  score  of  times. 
Don't  you  remember  Mademoiselle  Vivia  who  took  all 
London  by  storm  some  twelve  years  ago  .?  " 

"Of  course  I  do.  Ah,  what  eyes  that  girl  had  I  And 
then  she  disappeared  so  mysteriously,  nobody  ever  knew 
what  became  of  her." 

"I  know.  Cliffe  Shirley  married  her,  and  she  died,  as 
you  have  said,  a  year  after." 

Captain  Douglas  gave  an  intensely  long  whistle  of 
astonishment. 

"Oh,  that  was  the  way  of  it,  then?  No  wonder  his 
lady  mother  was  outrageous.     A  Cliffe  marry  an  actress  !  " 

"Just  so,"  drawled  Lord  Lisle.  "And  if  her  son  hadn't 
married  her,  her  brother  would.  Sir  Roland  nearly  went 
distracted  about  her." 

"  Oh,  nonsense  !  He  married  that  black-eyed  widow- 
that  Cousin  Charlotte  of  his,  with  the  little  boy — in  half  a 
year  after. " 

"It's  true,  though.  I  never  saw  any  one  half  so  franti- 
cally in  love  ;  and  he  hasn't  forgotten  her  yet,  as  you 
may  see  by  his  naming  his  black  mare  after  her." 

Captain  Douglas  laughed. 

"And  is  it  for  the  same  reason  you  have  named  your 
red  racer  after  Lady  Agnes — eh,  Lisle  ? " 

Lord  Lisle  actually  blushed.  Everybody  knew  how 
infatuated  the  insipid  young  peer  was  about  the  haughty 
lady  of  Castle  Cliffe,  who  might  have  been  his  mother  ;  and 
everybody  laughed  at  him,  except  the  lady  herself,  who, 
in  an  uplifted  sort  of  way,  was  splendidly  and  serenely 
scornful. 

"Lovely  creature!"  lisped  the  ensign.  "And  those 
ponies  must  be  worth  a  thousand  guineas  if  they're  worth 
one." 

"How  much?  Where  is  she?  Is  she  here?"  cried 
Lord  Lisle,  who  was,  mentally  and  physically,  rather  ob- 
tu:^e,  staring  around  him.  ' '  Oh,  I  see  her  ;  Excuse  me, 
gentlemen  ;  I  must  pay  my  respects." 

Off  went  Lord  Lisle,  like  a  bolt  from  a  bow.  The 
officers  looked  at  each  other,  and  laughed. 

"Now  you'll  see  the  grandly  disdainful  reception  he'll 
get, "  said  Captain  Douglas.  "  The  queenly  descendant 
of  the  Cliffes  treats  the  lately  fledged  lordling  as  if  he 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


33 


She  was 

[  times. 

took  all 

dl     And 
jQX  knew 

!  died,  as 

thistle   of 

onder  his 
actress  1 '' 
5on  hadn't 
jarly  went 

i  widow^ 
in  half  a 

If  so  franti- 
'et,  as  you 
pr." 

lamed  your 

knew  how 
the  haughty 
lother;  and 
erself,  who, 
nd  serenely 

And  those 
hey're  worth 

lere?"  cried 
y,  rather  ob- 
Excuse  me, 

bow.     The 

eception  he'll 
y  descendant 
ling  as  if  he 


were  her  footboy  ;  and  probably  his  grandfather  shoed 
her  grandfather's  horses." 

The  whole  j^n-oup  were  looking  toward  the  glittering  file 
of  carriages,  drawn  up  near  the  end  of  which  was  an  ex- 
quisite phaeton,  drawn  by  two  beautifully  rrmtched  ponies 
of  creamy  whitness. 

The  phaeton  had  three  occupants — a  lady  looking  still 
young  and  still  beautiful,  and  eminently  distinguished, 
dressed  in  flowing  robes  of  black  barege,  with  a  costly 
lace  shawl,  gracefully  worn  more  like  drapery  than  a 
shawl  half  slipping  off  one  shoulder,  daintily  gloved  in 
black  kid,  and  wearing  a  black  tulle  bonnet,  contrasting 
extj  Isitely  with  the  pearly  fairness  of  the  proud  face,  and 
shining  bandeaux  of  flaxen  hair.  In  those  flaxen  ban- 
deaux not  one  gray  hair  was  visible  ;  and  leaning  back 
with  languid  hauteur,  she  looked  a  proud,  indolent,  ele- 
gant woman  of  the  world,  but  not  a  widow  wearing  mourn- 
ing for  her  only  son.  Lady  Agnes  Shirley  might  have 
felt  sorrowful — widows  with  only  sons  mostly  do — but 
certainly  the  world  knew  nothing  of  it.  Her  heart  might 
break  ;  but  she  w^as  one  who  could  suffer  and  make  no 

sign-  , 

Sitting  beside  her,  and  holding  the  reins,  pointing  every* 
thing  out  to  her  with  vivid  animation,  talking  with  the 
greatest  volubility,  and  gesticulating  with  the  utmost 
earnestness,  was  a  tall,  dark-eyed,  dark-haired,  good* 
looking  young  giant,  who,  although  only  sixteen,  was  si:j 
feet  high,  and  told  his  friends  he  wasn't  half  done  grow- 
ing yet.  He  was  Tom  Shirley,  an  orphan,  the  son  o| 
Lady  Agnes'  late  husband's  youngest  brother,  now 
resident  at  Castle  Cliffe,  and  senior  boy  in  the  College 
School  of  Cliftonlea.  And  that  was  Master  Tom's  whole 
past  history,  except  that  he  was  the  best  natured,  im: 
petuous,  fiery,  rough,  kind-hearted  young  giant,  whose 
loud  voice  and  long  strides  brought  uproar  everywhere 
he  went. 

There  was  a  third  figure  in  the  back  seat — a  small  girl, 
who  looked  ten  and  who  was  in  reality  fifteen  years  old 
— Miss  Margaret  Shirley,  the  daughter  of  Doctor  Shirley's 
second  brother — like  Tom,  an  orphan,  and  dependent  on 
her  aunt.  She  was  dressed  in  bright  rose  silk,  wore  a 
pretty  summer-hat  trimmed  with  rose  ribbons  ;  but  the 
bright  colors  of  robe  and  chapeau  contrasted  harshly  with 


A\   1 


'.. 


f!  !■  II 


» 


!,.V 


!      I 


!"'•  i 


,|i;. 


34 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


her  dark,  pale  face.  It  was  a  wan,  sickly,  solemn,  un- 
smiling little  visage  as  ever  child  wore ;  with  large, 
hollow  gray  eyes,  neither  bright  nor  expressive  ;  sharp, 
pinched  features,  and  altogether  an  inexplicably  cowed 
and  subdued  look.  Her  hair  was  pretty — the  only  pretty 
thing  about  her — dark,  and  thick,  and  curly,  as  the  hair 
of  all  the  Shirleys  was  ;  but  it  could  not  relieve  the  solemn, 
sallow  face,  the  pinched,  angular  figure,  and  everybody 
wondered  what  Lady  Agnes  could  see  in  that  homely  girl, 
and  shrugged  their  shoulders  to  think  that  she  should 
reign  in  Castle  Cliffe,  the  beauty  of  whose  mistress  had 
always  been  the  country's  boast. 

The  knot  of  officers  watching  Lord  Lisle  had  all  their 
expectations  realized.  His  profound  bow  received  only 
the  slightest  and  coldest  answering  bend  of  the  haughty 
head.  Then  Tom  Shirley  jumped  from  the  carriage,  and 
digging  his  elbow  into  everybody's  ribs  who  came  in  his 
way,  tore  like  a  fiery  meteor  through  the  crowd. 

Then  the  horses  were  starting,  and  the  officers  had  no 
time  to  think  of  anything  else.  For  some  time  Vivia  and 
Lady  Agnes  kept  neck  and  neck.  The  excitement  and 
betting  were  immense.  Captain  Douglas  doubled  his 
wager — Vivia  went  ah  "ad — a  shout  arose — she  kept  ahead 
— Lady  Agnes  was  beaten  !  and  Vivia,  amid  a  tremendous 
cheer,  came  triumphantly  in  the  winner. 

"That's  three  thousand  pounds  in  my  pocket, "  said 
Captain  Douglas,  coolly.  "Hallo,  Shirley!  What's  the 
row  .-*  ' 

For  Tom  Shirley  was  tearing  along,  very  red  in  the 
face,  his  elbows  in  the  ribs  of  society,  and  looking  as 
much  like  a  distracted  meteor  as  ever.  He  halted  in  a 
high  state  of  excitement  at  the  captain's  salute. 

"The  most  glorious  sight  !  Such  a  girl!  You  ought 
to  see  her  !     She's  positively  stunning  !  " 

"  Who's  stunning,  Tom  ?  Don't  be  in  a  hurry  to  an- 
swer.    You're  completely  blown." 

"I'll  be  blown  again,  then,  if  I  stop  talking  here.  If 
you  want  to  see  her  come  along  and  look  for  yourself." 

"  I'm  your  man  !  "  said  the  captain,  thrusting  his  arm 
through  Tom's,  and  sticking  his  other  elbow,  after  that 
spirited  young  gentleman's  fashion,  into  the  sides  of 
everybody  who  opposed  him.  "And  now  relieve  my 
curiosity,  like  a  good  fellow,  as  we  go  along." 


WEDDED  FOR  FIQUE. 


35 


i 


;mn,  iin- 
h    large, 
;  sharp, 
yr  cowed 
ly  pretty 
,  the  hair 
2  solemn, 
verybody 

mely  girl. 
le  should 
itress  had 

d  all  their 
;ived  only 
e  haughty 
riage,  and 
ame  in  his 

d. 

ers  had  no 

jVivia  and 

ement  and 

oubled  his 

kept  ahead 

remendous 

)cket,"  said 
What's  the 

red  in  the 

looking  as 

halted  in   a 

e. 
You  ought 


urry 


to  an- 


If 


ng  here. 

yourself." 
ing  his  arm 
w,  after  that 

he   sides   of 
relieve  my 


"Oh,  it's  a  tight-rope  dancer !"  said  Tom.  "Make 
haste,  or  you  won't  see  her,  and  it's  a  sight  to  see,  I  tell 

19% 

"Is  she  pretty,  Tom?" 

"  A  regular  trump !  "  said  Tom.  "  Get  out  of  my  way, 
you  old  kangaroo,  or  I'll  pitch  you  into  the  middle  of 
next  week." 

This  last  apostrophe  was  addressed  to  a  stout  gentle- 
man, who  came  along  panting,  and  snorting,  and  mop- 
ping his  face.  And  as  the  old  gyentleman  and  everybody 
else  got  out  of  the  way  of  this  human  whirlwind,  Tom 
and  Captain  Douglas  soon  found  themselves  before 
a  large  canvas  tent,  around  which  an  immense  con- 
course of  people,  young  and  old,  were  gathered.  A 
great  pole,  fifty  feet  high,  stuck  up  through  the  middle  of 
this  tent,  and  from  it  a  thick  wire-rope  came  slanting  to 
the  ground.  Two  or  three  big  men,  in  bright  uniforms  of 
scarlet  and  yellow,  were  keeping  the  multitude  away 
from  this,  and  a  band  of  modern  troubadours,  with  brass 
instruments  in  their  mouths,  were  discoursing  the  "British 
Grenadiers."  A  very  little  boy  was  beating  a  big  drum 
in  a  very  large  way,  so  that  when  the  captain  spoke,  he 
had  to  shout  as  people  do  through  an  ear-trumpet. 

"  H6w  are  we  to  get  through  this  crowd  to  the  tent, 
if  the  damsel  you  speak  of  is  within  it  ?  " 

"Oh,  she'll  be  out  presently  !"  said  Tom;  ''she  is 
going  to  give  the  common  herd  a  specimen  of  her  powers, 
by  climbing  up  to  the  dizzy  top  of  that  pole,  and  dancing 
the  polka  mazurka,  or  an  Irish  jig,  or  something  of  that 
sort,  on  the  top.  And  while  we  are  waiting  for  her,  just 
look  here ! " 

The  captain  looked.  On  every  hand  there  were  huge 
placards  with  letters  two  feet  long,  in  every  color  of  the 
rainbow,  so  that  he  who  lan  might  read,  and  the  text  of 
these  loud  posters  was  somewhat  in  this  fashion  : 

UNRIVALED  ATTRACTION! 

The  Infant  Venus ! 

The  Pet  and  Favorite  of  the  Royal  Family,  the  Nobility,  and  Gentry 
of  England  I 

Come  one  I    Come  all ! 

The  Infant  Venus  I    The  Infant  Venus !  I    The  Infant  Venus  1 1 1 
Admission,  6d.     Children,  half  price. 


'  !  ' 

\ 


r 


36 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUR. 


V 


it 


I       M„| 


jji 


By  tlie  time  the  captain  had  got  to  the  end  of  this  ah- 
sorhint^  piece  of  literature,  a  murmuring  and  swaying 
motion  of  the  crowd  told  him  tiiat  the  Infant  Venus  her- 
self had  appeared  in  the  outer  world.  There  was  a  sup- 
|)ressed  rush — the  men  in  scarlet  jackets  llounshed  their 
batons  dangerously  near  the  noses  of  the  dear  public. 
There  was  an  excited  murmur  :  ' '  Where  is  she  ?  "  "  What 
is  she  liUe?"  "Oh,  I  can't  see  lier  !  "  And  everybody's 
eyes  were  starting  out  of  their  sockets  to  make  sure  that 
tlie  Inlaiit  Venus  was  of  real  llesh  and  blood,  and  not 
an  optical  illusion. 

But  soon  they  were  satisfieil.  A  glittering  figure,  spark- 
ling and  shining  like  the  sunlight  from  head  to  foot,  bear- 
ing the  Union  Jack  of  Old  ICngland  in  either  hand,  went 
fluttering  up  this  slender  wire.  The  crowd  held  its  breath, 
the  music  changed  to  a  quick,  wild  measure,  and  the 
beautiful  vision  floated  up  in  the  sunshine,  keeping  time 
to  the  exciting  strain. 

It  was  the  light,  slender  figure  of  a  girl  of  thirteen  or 
fourteen,  with  the  little  tapering  feet  gleaming  in  spangled 
slippers  of  white  satin,  the  slight  form  arrayed  in  a  short 
white  gossamer  skirt  reaching  to  the  knee,  and,  like  the 
slippers,  all  over  silver  spangles.  Down  over  the  bare 
white  shoulders  waved  such  a  glorious  fall  of  golden- 
bronze  hair,  half  waves,  half  curls,  such  as  few  children 
ever  had  before  ;  and  the  shining  tresses  were  crowned 
with  ivy  leaves  and  white  roses.  The  face  was  as  beau- 
tiful as  the  hair,  but  instead  of  the  blue  or  brown  eyes 
that  sliould  have  gone  with  it,  they  were  of  intcasest 
black,  and  veiled  by  sweeping  lashes  of  the  same  color. 

The  music  arose,  quicker  and  faster  ;  the  silvery  vision, 
scintilating  and  shining,  flashed  up,  and  up,  and  up,  with 
her  waving  flags,  till  she  looked  like  a  bright,  white  speck 
against  the  blue  summer  sky,  and  the  lookers-on  hushed 
the  very  beating  of  their  hearts.  One  false  step — one 
dizzy  turn,  and  that  white  frock  will  cover  a  bleeding  and 
mangled  little  form,  and  the  bronze  hair  will  be  crimson 
in  blood  But  she  is  at  the  top  ;  she  is  looking  down 
upon  them ;  she  waves  her  flags  triumphantly  in  her 
eagle  eyrie,  and  a  mighty  cheer  goes  up  from  a  hundred 
throats,  that  makes  the  whole  plain  ring. 

Now  the  music  changes  again  ;  it  grows  slower,  and 
the  fairy  in  silver  spangles  begins  to  descend.     If  she 


dar 
the 
wei 
wh 


this  ab- 
,wayint; 
iiisi  bcr- 
i  i\  sup- 
ed  their 
•  nublic. 
"What 
rybody's 
Hire  that 
aiul  not 

re,  spark- 
oot,  bcar- 
ind,  went 
its  breath, 
and  the 
'ping  time 

hirteen  or 
1  spangled 
in  a  short 
d,  Ukc  the 
r  the  bare 
of  golden- 
vv  children 
crowned 
IS  as  beau- 
rown  eves 
■  inteuisest 

me  color. 
:ery  vision, 
id  up,  with 
.vhite  speck 
on  hushed 
;  step— one 
leeding  and 
e  crimson 
king  down 
ntly  in  her 
a  hundred 

slower,  and 
Ind.     H  she 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


37 


should  miss,  even  now  !  But  no,  she  is  on  the  ground 
even  before  they  can  realize  it,  and  then  there  is  another 
shout  louder  than  the  first ;  the  band  strikes  up  an  "  lo 
Triomphe,"  and  Tom  and  the  captain  take  off  their  own 
hats,  and  cheer  loudiT  than  any  (>f  the  rest.  And  the 
brave  little  beauty  bows  riii^ht  and  left,  and  vanishes  like 
any  other  fairy,  and  is  seen  no  more. 

♦'  Dichi't  I  tell  you  she  was  stunning  !  "  cried  Tom,  ex- 
ultingly. 

"  'I'oin,  you're  an  oracle  !  Is  she  going  to  do  anything 
witiiin  ? " 

"  Lots  of  things — look  at  that  rush  .'* " 

There  was  a  rusli,  sure  enough.  The  doors  had  been 
opened,  and  everybody  was  scrambling  in  pcUmell.  Six- 
pences antl  threepences  were  Hying  about  like  hail-stones 
in  a  March  storm,  and  women  and  children  were  getting 
torn  and  "squeezed  to  death." 

Tom  and  the  captain  fought  their  way  through  with 
the  rest.  Two  people  were  taking  money  at  tiie  door  in 
which  they  entered — a  man  and  a  woman.  They  paid 
their  sixpences,  made  a  rush  for  a  seat,  and  took  it  in 
triumph.  Still  the  crowd  poured  in — it  might  have  been 
the  beauty  of  the  girl,  her  dizzying  walk  up  the  wire-rope, 
or  the  rumor  of  her  dancing,  that  brought  them,  but  cer- 
tainly the  canvas  tent  was  filled  from  its  sawdust  pit  to 
its  tented  roof. 

They  were  not  kept  long  waiting  for  the  rising  of  the 
curtain — the  same  thing  was  to  be  played  at  least  half  a 
dozen  times  that  day,  so  the  moments  were  precious,  and 
the  solemn  green  curtain  went  up  in  ten  minutes,  and 
they  saw  the  youthful  Venus  rise  up  from  the  sea-foam, 
with  her  beautiful  hair  unbound,  and  floating  around  her, 
her  white  robes  trailing  in  the  brine,  and  King  Neptune 
and  Queen  Amphitrite,  and  their  Mermaid  court,  and  the 
Graces  and  attendant  Sylphs,  all  around  her.  The  scene 
was  all  sea  and  moonlight ;  and  Venus  floated,  in  her 
white  dress,  across  the  moonlit  stage,  like  a  fairy  in  a 
magic  ring. 

The  tent  shook  with  the  applause  ;  and  nobody  ever 
danced  in  trailing  robes  as  she  did  then.  The  contest  for 
the  crown  of  beauty  arose — Juno,  Minerva,  and  Venus 
were  all  there ;  and  so  was  the  arbiter  and  judge.  Oh, 
what  another  storm  of  applause  there  wa    when  Paris 


•  ( 


•M 


\  i 


(f 


jii-ii ,  ijjiiMiiii 


mm 


i; 


i. 
I 


I 

If 

'I 

'I 

' ,  iS 

i  I 


I! 
I 

'Si 


'   i|  i' 


I     :l''^' 


!  Mil 


f     ij   !![ 

5     'lii; 


^n 


J8 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


gave  Venus  the  gold  apple,  and  Juno  and  Minerva  danced 
a  pa"  de  deux  of  exasperation,  and  she  floated  round 
them  like  a  spirit  of  a  dream.  And  then  Venus  bowed 
and  smiled  at  the  audience,  and  kissed  her  finger-tips  to 
them,  and  vanished  behind  the  green  curtain  ;  and  then 
it  was  all  over,  and  everybody  was  pouring  out  in  ecstasies 
of  delight. 

*'  Isn't  she  splendid?  "  cried  Tom,  in  transport.  *'  She 
beats  the  ballet-dancers  I  saw  when  I  was  in  London,  all 
to  sticks.  And  then  she  is  as  good-looking  as  an  en- 
chanted princess  in  the  '  Arabian  Nights  1 ' " 

"My  dear  Tom,  moderate  your  transports.  I  wonder 
if  there's  any  way  of  finding  out  anything  more  about 
her  ?  I  must  confess  to  feeling  a  trifle  interested  in  her 
myself. " 

• '  Let  us  ask  the  old  codger  at  the  door. " 

"Agreed." 

The  twain  made  their  way  to  the  door,  where  the  old 
codger,  as  Tom  had  styled  the  black-browed,  sullen 
lookins:  man  who  had  taken  the  money,  stood  counting 
over  his  gains  with  his  female  companion — a  little,  stoop- 
ing, sharp-eyed,  vixenish-looking  old  woman.  The  man 
looked  up  as  Captain  Douglas  lightly  touched  him  on  the 
shoulder. 

* '  See  here,  my  friend,  that  is  a  very  pretty  little  girl 
you  have  there  !  " 

"  Glad  you  like  her !  "  said  the  man,  with  a  sort  of 
growl. 

"  I  thought  you  would  be.     What's  her  name  ?  " 

"Her  name.?  Can't  you  read.?  Her  name  is  out 
there  on  them  bills  !  Don't  you  see  she  is  the  Infant 
Venus  ? " 

"But  I  presume,  for  the  common  uses  of  everyday  life, 
she  has  another  ?  Come,  old  fellow,  don't  be  disobliging 
—let's  hear  it." 

"Not  as  I  know  on,"  growled  the  questioned  one, 
civilly. 

Tom,  combating  a  severe  mental  resolve  to  punch  his 
head,  then  drew  out  a  sovereign  instead,  and  flourished 
it  before  his  eyes. 

"Look  here,  old  chap  1  tell  us  all  about  her,  and  I'll 
give  you  this." 

"  I'll  tell  you !"  said   the   old   woman,  snapping  with 


larl 

kn< 
his  I 
her 


need 

ound 
Dwed 
ps  to 
then 
tasies 

"She 
on,  all 
m  en- 

vonder 
about 
in  her 


the  old 
sullen 
Counting 
e,  stoop- 
fhe  man 
n  on  the 

ttle  girl 

sort  o£ 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


39 


vicious  eagferness  at  the  money.  "She's  his  daughter, 
and  I'm  his  mother,  and  she's  my  granddaughter,  and  her 
name's  Barbara  Black  !     Give  it  here  !  " 

Before  Tom  could  recover  his  breath,  jerked  out  of  him 
by  the  volubility  with  which  this  confession  was  poured 
forth,  the  old  woman  had  snatched  the  coin  out  of  his 
hand,  and  was  thrusting  it,  with  a  handful  of  silver, 
into  her  pocket,  when  a  pleasant  voice  behind  her  ex- 
claimed : 

"  Dear  little  Barbara,  the  prettiest  little  fairy  that  ever 
was  seen,  and  the  very  image  of  her  charming  grand- 
mother !  " 

All  looked  at  the  speaker — a  gentleman  in  a  canary- 
colored  waistcoat,  wearing  gold  studs  and  breastpin,  a 
gold  watch-chain,  with  a  profusion  of  shimmering  gold 
charms  attached,  a  lemon-colored  glove  on  ciie  hand,  and 
a  great  gold  ring  on  the  other,  with  a  yellow  seal  that 
reached  nearly  to  the  second  joint  ;  a  saffronish  com- 
plexion, and  yellow  hair,  that  seemed  to  encircle  his 
head  like  a  glory — a  gentleman  who  glittered  in  the  sun- 
light almost  as  much  as  the  Infant  Venus  herself,  and 
whose  cheerful  face  wore  the  pleasantest  of  smiles — a 
gentleman  to  make  you  smile  from  sympathy  as  you 
looked  at  him,  and  not  at  all  to  be  afraid  of  ;  but  as  the 
grandmoth"-;  of  the  Infant  Venus  had  turned  her  eyes 
upon  him,  she  uttered  a  terrified  scre-'^m,  dropped  the 
handful  of  gold  and  silver,  and  fled. 


h 


n 


.1 


•I 


>» 

e  is   out 
le  Infant 

yday  U^e, 
sobliging 

ned  one, 

punch  his 
flourished 

|r,  and  I'll 
)ing  with 


!    i 


CHAPTER  V. 


THE    PRODIGAL    SON. 


"Ah,  Sweet,  how  are  you  ?  "  said  Tom,  nodding  famil- 
iarly to  the  new-comer.  "What  the  dickens  ails  the  old 
girl  ? " 

"A  hard  question  to  answer.  She  is  out  a  little,  you 
know  "  (Mr.  Sweet  tapped  his  forehead  significantly  with 
his  forefinger,  and  looked  at  the  man),  "just  a  little 
here  ! " 


n 


(■ 

\r 

fl 

i  i 

1 

•'!  r:! 

i 

m, 


,'i'' 


:i!:tli 


40 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


"Can  we  speak  to  the  Infant  Venus?"  asked  Tom  of 
the  old  codger. 

"I  tell  you  what,  gents,"  was  the  angry  reply,  "I 
want  you  three  to  clear  out  of  this  !  There  are  other 
ladies  and  gents  a-coming  in,  and  I  can't  be  having  you 
a-loitering  round  here  all  day  !     Come  !  " 

"Quite  right,"  said  Mr.  Sweet,  in  his  pleasant  way. 
"Mr,  Tom,  1  heard  Lady  Agnes  asking  for  you  a  short 
time  ago.  Captain  Douglas,  the  major  told  me  to  say,  if 
I  found  you,  he  had  a  little  commission  for  you  to  exe- 
cute. Mr.  Tom,  I  believe  her  ladyship  wishes  to  go 
home." 

"All  right !  "  said  Tom  boyishly,  moving  away  arm-in- 
arm with  the  captain  ;  and  turning  his  head  as  he  went. 
"Give  my  love  to  Barbara,  you  old  bear,  and  don't  let  her 
be  risking  her  precious  little  neck  climbing  that  horrid 
wire,  or  I'll  break  your  head  for  you.     Au  revoir /" 

With  which  gentle  valedictory  Tom  and  the  captain 
moved  away  ;  and  the  doorkeeper  looked  after  them  with 
a  growl ;  but  he  growled  more  when  he  found  Mr.  Sweet 
standing  still  before  him,  gazing  up  in  his  face  with  a  soft 
smile,  and  showing  no  signs  of  moving, 

"Come  !  get  out  of  this  !  "  he  began,  gruffly, 

"Oh,  no  !"  said  Mr,  Sweet,  "By  no  means;  not  at 
all  ;  not  yet.  '  'Tis  just  the  hour,'  Moore  found  that 
out,  you  know.  I  want  to  see  the  old  lady  who  ran 
away." 

"You  will  want  it  then  !     Be  off,  I  tell  you  1 " 

"  My  dear  fellow,  don't  raise  your  voice  in  that  un- 
pleasant manner.  People  will  hear  you,  and  Fm  sure 
you  would  regret  it  after.  Do  lead  me  to  that  dear  old 
lady  again — your  mother,  I  think  you  said." 

And  Mr.  Sweet  patted  him  soothingly  on  the  back. 

"I'll  break  your  neck,"  cried  the  exasperated  man, 
snatching  up  a  cudgel  that  stood  beside  him,  and  flourish- 
ing it  in  a  way  that  showed  he  was  most  unpleasantly 
in  earnest,  "if  you  stay  another  minute  here  !  " 

The  two  men  were  looking  straight  at  each  other — the 
one  with  furious  eyes,  the  other  perfectly  serene. 

There  is  a  magnetism,  they  say,  in  a  calm,  command- 
ing human  eye  that  can  make  an  enraged  tiger  crouch 
and  tremble.  Mr.  Sweet's  eyes  were  very  small,  and 
were  mostly  hidden  under  two  thick,  yellow  eyebrows  ; 


aj 
oi 

oj 
Si 

laj 


WEDDEb  FOR  PIQUE. 


41 


"I 

ther 
you 

vay. 
ihort 

ly,  if 
exe- 

0  go 

m-in- 
vvent. 
,et  her 
horrid 

aptain 

-n  with 
Sweet 

1  a  soft 


not  at 

d  that 

'ho  ran 


hat  un- 

["m  sure 

Lear  old 

lack. 

led  man, 
flourish- 
[easantly 

ther— the 

)mmand- 
ir  crouch 
hall,    and 

rebrows  ; 


but  they  were  wonderful  eyes  for  all  that.  The  man  with 
the  stick  was  a  big,  stout  fellow,  who  would  have  made 
two  of  him  easily  ;  but  he  slowly  dropped  his  stick  and 
his  eyes,  and  crouched  like  a  whipped  hound  before  his 
master. 

"What  do  you  want  ?  "  he  demanded,  with  his  custom- 
ary growl,  "  a-coming  and  bullying  a  man  what's  been 
and  done  nothing  to  you.  I  wish  you  would  clear  out. 
There's  customers  a-coming  in,  and  you're  in  the  way." 

"But  I  couldn't  think  of  such  a  thing,"  said  Mr.  Sweet, 
laughing.  "I  couldn't,  indeed,  until  I've  seen  the  old 
lady.     Dear  old  lady  !  do  take  me  to  her,  my  friend." 

Muttering  to  himself,  but  still  cowed,  the  man  led  on 
through  the  rows  of  benches,  pushed  aside  the  green  cur- 
tain, and  jumped  on  the  low  stage.  Mr.  Sweet  followed, 
and  entered  with  him  the  temporary  greenroom,  pausing 
in  the  doorway  to  survey  it. 

A  horrible  place,  full  of  litter,  and  dirt,  and  disorder, 
and  painted  men  and  women,  and  children,  and  noise, 
and  racket,  and  uproar.  There  was  a  row  of  little  look- 
ing-glasses stuck  all  round  the  wall,  and  some  of  the 
players  were  standing  before  them,  looking  unutterably 
ghastly  with  one  cheek  painted  blooming  red,  and  the 
other  of  a  grisly  whiteness.  And  in  the  midst  of  all  this 
confusion  "worse  confounded,"  there  sat  the  Infant 
Venus,  looking  as  beautiful  off  the  stage  as  she  had  done 
on  it,  and  needing  no  paint  or  tawdry  tinsel  to  make  her 
so.  And  there,  crouching  down  in  the  farthest  corner, 
horribly  frightened,  as  every  feature  of  her  old  face 
showed,  was  the  dear  old  lady  they  were  in  search  of. 

The  noise  ceased  at  the  entrance  of  the  stranger,  and 
all  paused  in  their  manifold  occupations  to  stare,  and  the 
old  woman  crouched  farther  away  in  her  corner,  and  held 
out  her  shaking  hands  as  if  to  keep  him  off.  But  Mr. 
Sweet,  in  his  benevolent  designs,  was  not  one  to  be  so 
easily  kept  off;  and  he  went  over  and  patted  the  old 
lady  encouragingly  on  the  back  as  he  had  done  her  son. 

"  My  good  old  soul,  don't  be  so  nervous  !  There  is  no 
earthly  reason  why  you  should  tremble  and  look  like 
this.  I  wouldn't  hurt  a  fly,  I  wouldn't.  Do  compose 
yourself,  and  tell  me  what  is  the  matter." 

The  old  woman  made  an  effort  to  speak,  but  her  teeth 
chattered  in  her  head. 


':.i 


m 
m 


!i 


i 


III 


ffsm 


mmm 


'I 


^i:|il 


mi 

I 


..'iii 


1  -i 


,1 


I 


Ml:: 


& 


>  m 


I  'iii:" 


!'<1, 


!! 


42 


tfi 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


"You  said  you  were — you  said- 


**  Precisely  !  That  was  exactly  what  I  said,  that  I  was 
going  to  America ;  but  I  haven't  gone,  you  see.  I 
couldn't  leave  England,  I  couldn't  really. 

" '  England,  my  country,  great  and  free, 
Heart  of  tho  world,  I  leap  to  thee  I ' 

and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know.  ' '  What !  you're  shak- 
ing yet.  Oh,  now,  really,  you  mustn't ;  it  quite  hurts  my 
feelings  to  see  one  at  your  time  of  life  taking  on  in  this 
fashion.  Permit  me  to  help  you  up,  and  assist  you  to  a 
chair.  There  is  none  !  Very  well ;  this  candle-box  will 
do  beautifully." 

With  which  Mr.  Sweet  assisted  the  old  lady  to  arise, 
placed  her  on  the  box,  amid  the  wondering  company,  and, 
smiling  in  his  pleasant  way  around  on  them  all,  pursued 
his  discourse, 

"These  good  ladies  and  gentlemen  here  look  surprised, 
and  it  is  quite  natural  they  should  ;  but  I  can  assure  them 
you  and  I  are  old  and  tried  friends,  and  I  will  intrude  on 
them  but  a  few  minutes  longer.  I  am  anxious  to  say  five 
words  in  private  to  your  son,  my  worthy  soul  I  and  lest 
his  naturally  prudent  nature  should  induce  him  to  decline, 
I  have  come  to  you  to  obtain  your  maternal  persuasions 
in  my  favor.  I  will  step  to  the  door  and  wait,  but  I'm 
sure  he  will  listen  and  obey  the  words  of  a  tender 
mother. " 

Humming  an  air  as  he  went,  Mr.  Sweet  walked  out, 
after  bowing  politely  to  the  company,  and  waited  with 
the  utmost  patience  for  some  ten  minutes  at  the  door.  At 
the  end  of  that  period  the  gentleman  waited  for  made  his 
appearance,  looking  sour,  suspicious,  and  discontented. 
Mr.  Sweet  instantly  took  his  arm  and  led  him  out  in  his 
pleasant  way, 

"Dear  old  fellow  !  I  knew  you  would  come — in  fact, 
I  was  perfectly  sure  of  it.  About  fifty  yards  from  this  place 
there  is  a  clump  of  birch  trees,  overhanging  a  hedge — a 
retired  place  where  nobody  ever  comes.  Do  you  know 
it?" 

A  sulky  nod  was  the  answer. 

"Very  well.  Have  the  goodness  to  precede  me  there 
— people  might  say  something  if  they  saw  us  go  together. 
I  have  a  very  interesting  little  story  to  tell  you,  which 


stoj 
all 


was 
.      1 


shak- 
:s  my 
I  this 
1  to  a 
X  will 

arise, 
r,  and, 
Lirsued 

prised, 

e  them 

ude  on 

;ay  five 

ind  lest 

lecUne, 
asions 
ut  I'm 
tender 

led  out, 
;d  with 
>or.  At 
lade  his 
itented. 
it  in  his 

-in  fact, 

lis  place 

[edge — a 

)u  know 


le  there 
together, 
which 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


43 


will  not  bear  more  than  one  listener,  and  that  dark  spot 
is  just  the  place  to  tell  it  in.     Go  on  !  " 

The  man  paused  for  one  moment  and  looked  at  him  in 
mingled  suspic-on  and  fear ;  but  Mr.  Sweet  was  pointing 
steadily  out.  And  muttering  in  his  peculiar,  growling 
tones,  like  those  of  a  beaten  cur,  he  slunk  away  in  the 
direction  indicated. 

The  distance  was  short ;  he  made  his  way  through  the 
crowd,  and  soon  reached  the  spot,  a  gloomy  place,  with 
white  birches  casting  long,  cool  shadows  over  the  hot 
grass,  in  an  obscure  corner  of  the  grounds  where  nobody 
came.  There  was  an  old  stump  of  a  tree,  rotting  under 
the  fragrant  hawthorn  hedge  ;  the  man  sat  down  on  it, 
took  a  pipe  out  of  his  pocket,  lighted  it,  and  began  to 
smoke.  As  he  took  the  first  whiff,  something  glistened 
before  him  in  the  sun,  and  raising  his  sullen  eyes,  they 
rested  on  the  jewelry  and  smiling  visage  of  Mr.  Sweet. 

"Ah,  that's  right  !  "  that  gentleman  began  in  his  lively 
way;  "make  yourself  perfectly  comfortable,  my  dear 
Black — your  name  is  Black,  is  it  not — Peter  Black,  eh  ?  " 

Mr.  Black  nodded,  and  smoked  away  like  a  volcano. 

"  Mine's  Sweet — Sylvester  Sweet,  solicitor-at-law,  and 
agent  and  steward  of  the  estates  of  Lady  Agnes  Shirley, 
of  Castle  Cliffe.  And  now  that  we  mutually  know  each 
other,  I  am  sure  you  will  be  pleased  to  have  me  proceed 
to  business  at  once." 

There  was  a  rustic  stile  in  the  hawthorn  hedge  quite 
close  to  where  Mr.  Black  sat.  Mr.  Sweet  took  a  seat 
upon  it,  and  looked  down  on  him,  smiling  all  over. 

"Perhaps  you're  surprised,  my  dear  Mr.  Black,  that  I 
should  know  you  as  if  you  were  my  brother ;  and  you 
may  be  still  further  surprised  when  you  hear  that  it  was 
solely  and  exclusively  on  your  account  that  I  have  come 
to  the  races.  I  am  not  a  betting  man  ;  I  haven't  the 
slightest  interest  in  any  of  these  horses  ;  I  don't  care  a 
snap  who  wins  or  who  loses,  and  I  detest  crowds  ;  but  I 
wouldn't  have  stayed  away  from  the  races  to-day  for  a 
thousand  pounds!  And  all,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Mr. 
Sweet,  jingling  his  watch-seals  till  they  seemed  laughing 
in  chorus,  "all  because  I  knew  you  were  to  be  here." 

Mr.  Black,  smoking  away  in  grim  silence,  and  looking 
stolidly  before  him,  might  have  been  deaf  and  dumb  for 
all  the  interest  or  curiosity  he  manifested. 


\\ 


' 


H 


!       ! 


H! 


lifi!' 


ilk 


'i' 


||3 


'jl^ii! 


,  m 


I  ill 


li;i| 


;!f 

■  if 

ilir 
» ;  I 


J; 
I' 


/      ..•' 


Iilii 


44 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


*' You  appear  indifferent,  my  good  Black;  but  I  think 
I  will  manage  to  interest  you  yet  before  we  part,  I  have 
the  most  charming  little  story  to  relate,  and  I  must  go 
back — let  me  see — eleven  years." 

Mr.  Black  gave  the  slightest  perceptible  start,  but  still 
he  neither  looked  up  nor  spoke. 

"Some  fifteen  miles  north  of  London,"  said  Mr.  Sweet, 
still  playing  with  his  watch-seals,  "  there  is  a  dirty  little 
village  called  Worrel,  and  in  this  village  there  lived, 
eleven  years  ago,  a  man  named  Jack  Wildman,  better 
known  to  his  pot-house  companions  by  the  sobriquet  of 
Blackjack." 

Mr.  Peter  Black  jumped  as  if  he  had  been  shot,  and 
the  pipe  dropped  from  his  mouth,  and  was  shivered  into 
atoms  at  his  feet. 

"  What  is  it.?  Been  stung  by  a  wasp  or  a  hornet?" 
inquired  Mr.  Sweet,  kindly.  "Those  horrible  little  in- 
sects are  in  swarms  around  here  ;  but  sit  down,  my  good 
Black;  sit  down,  and  take  another  pipe.  Got  none.? 
Well,  never  mind.  This  Black  Jack  I  was  telling  you  of 
was  a  mason  by  trade,  earning  good  wages,  and  living 
very  comfortably  with  a  wife  and  one  child,  a  little  girl ; 
and  I  think  her  name  was  Barbara,  Do  sit  down,  Mr. 
Black  ;  and  don't  look  at  me  in  that  uncomfortably  stead- 
fast way — it's  not  polite  to  stare,  you  know  !  " 

Mr.  Black  crouched  back  in  his  seat ;  but  his  hands 
were  clenched  and  his  face  was  livid. 

"This  man,  as  I  told  you,  was  getting  good  wages, 
and  was  doing  well ;  but  he  was  one  of  those  discon- 
tented, ungrateful  curs,  who,  like  a  spaniel,  required  to 
be  whipped  and  kicked  to  be  made  to  keep  his  place.  He 
got  dissatisfied  ;  he  went  among  his  fellow-laborers,  and 
stirred  up  a  feeling  of  mutinous  revolt.  There  was  a 
strike,  and  to  their  great  amazement  and  disgust,  their 
employers  took  them  at  their  word,  hired  other  workmen, 
and  told  the  discontented  men  to  depart—  to  get  out  ! 
They  grew  furious,  houses  were  set  on  fire,  the  new  work- 
men were  waylaid  and  beaten,  works  were  demolished, 
and  no  end  of  damage  done.  But  it  did  ::ot  last  long  ; 
the  law  has  a  long  arm  and  a  strong  hand,  and  it  reached 
the  disaffected  .stonemasons  of  Worrel.  A  lot  of  them 
were  taken  one  iiight  after  having  set  a  house  on  fire,  and 
beaten  an  inoffensive  man  to  death  ;  and  three  months 


'as  a  ' 
their 
|men, 
out! 
Lvork- 
Ished, 
long; 
iched 
I  them 
and 
lonths 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


45 


after,  the  whole  villainous  gang  were  transported  for  life 
to  New  South  Wales.  Allow  me  to  give  you  a  cigar,  my 
dear  Black  ;  I  am  sure  you  can  listen  better,  and  I  can 
talk  better  while  smoking." 

There  was  a  strong  club,  with  an  iron  head,  that  some 
one  had  dropped,  lying  near.  Mr.  Black  picked  it  up, 
and  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  furious  face.  The  motion 
was  quick,  but  his  companion  had  made  a  quicker  one  ; 
he  had  thrust  his  hand  into  his  breast-pocket,  and  drawn 
out  something  that  clicked  sharply. 

"Dear  old  boy,  keep  cool!  No  good  ever  comes  of 
acting  on  impulse,  and  this  is  a  hair-trigger  !  Sit  down — • 
do — and  throw  that  club  over  the  hedge,  or  I'll  blow  your 
brains  out  as  I  would  a  mad  dog's  !  " 

Mr.  Sweet's  voice  was  as  soft  as  the  notes  of  an  iEolian 
harp,  and  his  smile  was  perfectly  seraphic.  But  his  pistol 
was  within  five  inches  of  I\Ir.  Black's  countenance ;  and 
snarling  like  a  baffled  tiger,  he  did  throw  the  club  over 
the  hedge,  and  slunk  back  with  a  face  so  distorted  by 
fear  and  fury,  that  it  was  scarcely  human. 

"Dear  boy,  if  you  would  only  be  sensible  and  keep 
quiet  like  that ;  but  you  are  so  impulsive  !  Mr.  Wildman 
was  transported,  and  is  probably  founding  a  flourishing 
colony  in  that  delightful  land,  at  this  present  moment, 
for  nobody  ever  heard  of  him  again.  But  some  five 
months  ago,  there  arrived  in  London,  from  some  unknown 
quarter,  a  gentleman  by  the  name  of  Black — Peter  Black, 
who  was  so  charmingly  got  up  with  the  aid  of  a  wig, 
false  whiskers,  and  mustaches,  and  a  suit  of  sailor's 
clothes,  that  his  own  dear  mother  couldn't  have  known 
him.  In  fact,  that  venerable  lady  didn't  know  him  at  all, 
when,  after  a  month's  diligent  search  and  inquiry,  he 
found  her  out,  and  paid  her  an  unexpected  visit ;  but  it 
was  a  delightful  meeting.  Don't  ask  me  to  describe  it  ; 
no  known  words  in  the  English  language  could  do  justice 
to  a  mother's  feelings  on  meeting  a  lost  son — and  sucn  a 
son  !  Ah,  dear  me  !  "  said  Mr.  Sweet,  taking  his  cigar 
between  his  finger  and  thumb,  and  looking  down  at  it 
with  a  pensive  sigh. 

Mr.  Peter  Black,  crouching  down  between  the  trunks 
of  the  trees,  and  glaring  with  eyes  like  those  of  a  furious 
bull-dog  about  to  spring,  did  not  seem  exactly  the  sort  of 
son  for  any  mother  to  swoon  with  delight  at  seeing ;  but 


r 


,  I    It 


r 


Jill'i^ 


li 


46 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


.)! 


i!  1 


I'ii 


then,  tastes  differ.  Mr.  Sweet  knocked  the  ashes  daintily 
off  the  end  of  his  cigar,  replaced  it  between  his  lips, 
looked  brightly  down  on  the  glaring  eyes,  and  went  on  : 

"  Mr.  Peter  Black,  when  the  first  transports  of  meeting 
were  over,  found  that  the  relict  of  the  late  transported 
Mr,  Wildman  had  departed — let  us  hope  to  a  better  land 
— and  that  his  mother  had  adopted  Miss  Barbara,  then  a 
charming  young  lady  of  eleven,  and  the  most  popular 
little  tight-rope  dancer  in  London.  Miss  Barbara  was  in- 
troduced to  Mr.  Black,  informed  he  was  her  father,  just 
returned  after  a  long  cruise,  and  no  end  of  shipwrecks, 
and  through  her  influence  a  place  was  procured  for  him 
as  ticket-taker  in  the  theater.  It  was  a  wandering  affair 
that  same  theater,  and  Mr.  Black  and  his  charming 
daughter  and  mother  went  roving  with  it  over  the  country, 
and  finally  came  with  it  to  the  Cliftonlea  Races.  Sly  old 
fox  !  how  you  sit  there  drinking  in  every  word — do  let 
me  prevail  on  you  to  light  this  cigar." 

He  drev»r  from  his  cigar-case  a  fragrant  Havana  as  he 
spoke  :  but  the  sly  old  fox  let  it  roll  on  the  grass  at  his 
feet,  and  never  took  his  savage  eyes  off  the  sunny  face  of 
the  lawyer.  His  face  was  so  frightfully  pale,  that  the 
unearthly  glare  and  the  mat  of  coarse  black  hair,  made  it 
look  by  contrast  quite  dreadful. 

"You  won't  have  it?  Well,  no  matter.  How  do  you 
like  my  story  ? " 

"  You  devil ;  "  said  Mr.  Black,  speaking  for  the  first 
time,  and  in  a  horrible  voice,  "  where  did  you  learn  my 
story  ? " 

"  Your  story,  eh?  I  thought  you  would  find  it  inter- 
esting. No  matter  where  I  learned  it,  I  know  you,  Mr. 
Peter  Black,  as  pat  as  my  prayers,  and  I  intend  to  use 
that  knowledge,  you  may  take  your  oath  !  You  are  as 
much  my  slave  as  if  I  bought  you  from  your  master, 
Satan,  for  so  many  hundred  dollars  ;  as  much  my  dog  as 
if  I  had  you  chained  and  kenneled  in  my  yard  1  Don't 
stir,  you  returned  transport,  or  I'll  shoot  you  where  you 
stand." 

With  the  ferocious  eyes  blazing,  and  the  tiger-jaws 
snarling,  Mr.  Black  crawled,  in  spirit,  in  the  dust  at  the 
feet  of  the  calm-voiced,  yellow-haired  lawyer. 

"And  now,  Mr.  Black,  you  understand  why  I  brought 
you  here  to  tell  you  this  little  story  ;  and  as  youVe  lis- 


inter- 
Mr. 
to  use 
ire  as 
faster, 
log  as 
,  Don't 
re  you 

r-jaws 
lat  the 

rought 
I've  lis* 


WEDDED  PPR  PIQUE. 


47 


tened  to  it  with  exemplary  patience,  you  may  listen  now 
to  the  sequel.  The  first  thing  you  are  to  do  is,  to  quit 
this  roving  theater — you,  and  the  dear  old  lady,  and  the 
pretty  little  tight-rope  dancer.  You  can  remain  with  them 
to-day,  but  to-night  you  will  go  to  the  Cliffe  Arms,  the 
three  of  you,  and  remain  there  until  I  give  you  leave  to 
quit.  Have  you  money  enough  to  pay  for  lodgings  there 
a  week?  " 

Mr.  Black  uttered  some  guttural  sounds  by  way  of 
reply,  but  they  were  so  choked  in  his  throat  with  rage 
and  terror  that  they  were  undistinguishable. 

Mr.  Sweet  jumped  down  and  patted  him  on  the  shoulder 
with  a  good-natured  laugh. 

"  Speak  out,  old  fellow  1     Yes  or  no?" 

"Yes." 

**  You  won't  go  secretly,  you  know.  Tell  the  proprie- 
tor of  the  affair  that  you  like  this  place,  and  that  you  are 
going  to  settle  down  and  take  to  fishing  or  farming  ;  that 
you  don't  like  this  vagabond  kind  of  life  for  your  little 
girl,  and  so  on.  Go  to  the  Ciiffe  Arms  to-night.  You'll 
have  no  trouble  in  getting  quarters  there,  and  you  and 
your  delightful  family  will  stay  there  till  I  see  fit  to  visit 
you  again.     You  will  do  this,  my  dear  boy — won't  you  ? " 

"  You  know  I  must !  "  said  the  man,  with  a  fiendish 
scowl,  and  his  fingers  convulsively  working,  as  if  he 
would  have  liked  to  spring  on  the  pleasant  lawyer  and 
tear  him  limb  from  limb. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know  it!"  said  Mr.  Sweet,  laughing; 
"and  I  know,  too,  that  if  you  should  attempt  to  play 
any  tricks  on  me,  that  I  will  have  you  swinging  by  the 
neck  in  the  yard  of  the  Old  Bailey  prison  six  months  after. 
But  you  needn't  be  afraid.  I  don't  mean  to  do  you  any 
harm.  On  the  contrary,  if  you  only  follow  my  directions, 
you  will  find  me  the_,best  friend  you  ever  had.     Now,  go. " 

Mr.  Black  rose  up,  and  turned  away,  but  before  he  had 
gone  two  yards  he  was  back  again. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  What  does  all  this  mean  ?  "  he 
asked,  in  a  husky  whisper. 

"  Never  you  mind  that,  but  take  yourself  off.  I  am 
done  with  you  for  the  present.  Time  tells  everything, 
and  time  will  tell  what  I  want  with  you.     Off  with  you  !  " 

Mr.  Black  turned  again,  and  this  time  walked  steadily 
out  of  sight ;  and  when  he  was  entirely  gone,  Mr.  Sweet 


1! 

i' 

! 

1 

' 

ifi 


I 
li 

ii 


f ' 


hi 


"  t 


!l 


I 


lil; 


48  WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 

broke  into  a  musical  laugh,  threw  his  cigar-end  over  the 
hedge,  thrust  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  went  away 
whistling  : 

"  My  love  is  but  a  lassie  yet." 

But  if  the  steward  and  agent  of  Lady  Agnes  Shirley 
had  given  the  father  of  the  Infant  Venus  a  most  pleasant 
surprise,  there  was  another  surprise  in  reserve  for  himself 
—  whether  pleasant  or  not,  is  an  unanswerable  question. 

He  was  making  his  way  through  the  crowd,  lifting  his 
hat  and  nodding  and  smiling  right  and  left,  when  a  hearty 
slap  on  the  shoulder  from  behind  made  him  turn  quickly, 
as  an  equally  hearty  voice  exclaimed  : 

"  Sweet,  old  fellow,  how  goes  it  ?  " 

A  tall  gentleman,  seemingly  about  thirty,  with  an  un- 
mistakably military  air  about  him,  although  dressed  in 
civilian  costume,  stood  before  him.  Something  in  the 
peculiarly  erect,  upright  carriage,  in  the  laughing  blue 
eyes,  in  the  fair,  curly  hair  and  characteristic  features, 
seemed  familiar,  but  the  thick  military  mustache  and  sun- 
browned  skin  puzzled  him.  Only  for  a  moment,  though  ; 
the  next,  he  had  started  back,  with  an  exclamation  of : 

"Lieutenant  Shirley  !  " 

"Colonel  Shirley,  if  you  please.  Do  you  suppose  I 
have  served  twelve  years  in  India  for  nothing .''  Don't 
look  so  blanched,  man.  I  am  not  a  ghost,  but  the  same 
scapegrace  you  used  to  lend  money  to  in  old  lang  syne. 
Give  me  your  hand,  and  I'll  show  you." 

Mr.  Sweet  held  out  his  hand,  and  received  such  a  bear's 
grip  from  the  Indian  officer,  that  tears  of  pain  started 
into  his  eyes. 

"Thank  you,  Colonel;  that  will  do,"  said  the  lawyer, 
wincing,  but  in  an  overjoyed  tone  all  the  same.  "Who 
could  have  looked  for  such  an  unexpected  pleasure  ? 
When  did  you  arrive  '^.  " 

"I  got  to  Southampton  last  night,  and  started  for  here 
the  first  thing.  How  are  all  our  people.?  I  haven't  met 
any  one  I  know,  save  yourself;  but  they  told  me  in  Clif- 
tonlea,  Lady  Agnes  was  here." 

"  So  she  is.     Come  along,  and  I'll  show  you  where." 

With  a  face  radiant  with  delight  and  surprise,  Mr.  Sweet 
led  the  way,  and  Colonel  Shirley  followed.  Many  of  the 
faces  that  passed  were  familiar.  Sir  Roland's  among  the 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


49 


rest ;  but  the  Indian  officer,  hurrying  on,  slopped  to  speak 
to  no  one.  The  file  of  carriages  soon  came  in  sight.  Mr. 
Sweet  pointed  out  the  pony-phaeton  ;  and  his  companion 
the  next  instant,  was  measuring  off  the  road  toward  it  in 
great  strides. 

Lady  Agnes,  with  Tom  beside  her,  was  just  giving 
langu'd  directions  about  driving  home,  when  a  handsome 
face,  bronzed  and  mustached,  fras  looking  smilingly 
down  on  her,  a  hand  being  held  out,  and  a  well-known 
voice  exclaiming  : 

"  Mother,  I  have  come  home  again  I  " 


•(, 


U(^ 


^r  here 
it  met 
In  Clif- 


CHAPTER  VI. 


KILLING    THE    FATTED   CALF. 


It  is  a  vulgar  thing  to  be  surprised  at  anything  in  this 
world.  Lady  Agnes  Shirley  was  too  great  a  lady  to  do 
anything  vulgar ;  so  the  common  herd,  gathered  round, 
heard  only  one  faint  cry,  and  saw  the  strange  gentleman's 
hands  wildly  grasping  both  the  great  lady's. 

"  Don't  faint,  mother.  They  haven't  killed  me  in  India, 
and  it's  no  ghost,  but  your  good-for-nothing  son,  Cliffe  !  " 

"Oh,  Cliffe  I  Oh,  Cliffe!"  she  cried  out.  "Is  this 
really  you  ? " 

"  It  really  is,  and  come  home  for  good,  if  you  will  let 
me  stay.     Am  I  forgiven  yet,  mother  ?  " 

"My  darling  boy,  it  is  I  who  must  be  forgiven,  not 
you.  How  those  odious  people  are  staring  !  Tom,  jump 
out,  and  go  away.  Cliffe,  for  Heaven's  sake  !  get  in  here 
and  drive  out  of  this,  or  I  shall  die  !  Oh,  what  a  surprise 
this  is ! " 

Master  Tom  obeyed,  with  his  eyes  starting  out  of  his 
head  with  astonishment,  and  the  Indian  officer  laugh- 
ingly took  his  place,  touched  the  cream-colored  ponies 
lightly,  and  off  they  started,  amid  a  surprised  stare  from 
fifty  pairs  of  eyes. 

"  Oh,  Cliffe  I  I  cannot  realize  this.  When  did  you 
come  ?  Where  have  you  been  ?  What  have  you  been 
doing  ?     Oh,  I  am  dreaming,  I  think  1 " 

14 


■1     ! 


Ai 


f  ' 

I'l' 


50 


WEDDED  FOR  PiQVE. 


i\\\ 


:  I 


t 


"Nothing^  of  the  kind,  dear  mother.  There  is  not  a 
more  wide-awake  lady  in  England.  I  came  here  an  hour 
ago.  I  have  been  in  India  fighting  my  country's  battles, 
and  getting  made  a  colonel  for  my  pains." 

"My  brave  boy  !  And  it  is  twelve  years — twelve  long, 
long  years  since  I  saw  you  last  !  Shall  I  ever  forget  that 
miserable  morning  in  London  ?  " 

"  Of  course  you  will.  Why  not  ?  Let  by-gones  be  by- 
gones, as  the  Scots  say,  and  I  shall  settle  down  into  the 
most  contented  country  gentleman  you  ever  saw  at 
Castle  Cliffo.      How  do  things  go  on  at  the  old  place  ?  " 

"Exceedingly  well.  I  have  the  best  agent  in  the 
world.     But,  Cliffe,  we  heard  you  were  killed." 

"Likely  enough;  but  you  may  take  my  word  for  it 
when  I  tell  you  I  was  not.  I  was  very  near  it  though, 
more  than  once,  but  that's  all  over  now,  and  I'm  out  of 
the  reach  of  bullets  and  sword-cuts.  Who  is  the  young 
lady  behind .?  " 

"You  remember  your  uncle,  Edward  Shirley?  Well, 
he  is  dead,  and  that  is  his  daughter.  Wretched  little  crea- 
ture !  "  said  Lady  Agnes,  lowering  her  voice,  and  laugh- 
ing contemptuously.  "  But  I  took  her  to  keep  her  out  of 
the  work-house  !  Drive  fast,  Cliffe  ;  I  am  dying  to  get 
home  and  hear  everything." 

The  two  creamy  ponies  flashed  like  an  express-train 
through  Cliftonlea,  and  along  through  a  delightful,  wooded 
road,  and  drew  up  before  two  immense  iron  gates,  swing- 
ing under  a  great  granite  arch,  with  the  arms  of  Cliffe 
carved  thereon.  The  huge  gates  were  opened  by  a  man 
who  came  out  of  an  Italian  cottage — or,  at  least,  as  near 
an  imitation  of  a  cottage  as  they  can  go  in  Italy — and 
which  was  the  gate-lodge,  and  the  ponies  dashed  up  a 
spacious  avenue,  with  grand  cedars  of  Lebanon  on 
either  hand,  for  upward  of  a  quarter  of  a  mile.  Then 
they  crossed  a  great  wide  bridge,  wide  enough  to  have 
half-spanned  the  Mississippi,  and  which  in  reality  spanned 
an  ambitious  little  stream  you  might  have  waded  through 
in  half  a  dozen  steps,  running  sparklmg  through  the 
green  turf  like  a  line  of  light,  and  disappearing  among 
the  trees. 

Past  this  the  avenue  ran  along  through  a  part  of  the 
grounds  less  densely  wooded,  and  you  saw  that  the  rivulet 
emptied  itself  into  a  wide  lake,  lying  like  a  great  pearl 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


5» 


train 
ooded 
wing- 
Cliffe 
man 
near 
— and 
up  a 
Dn   on 
Then 
have 
anned 
rough 
the 
mong 


h 


set  in  emeralds,  and  with  a  miniature  island  in  the  center. 
There  was  a  Swiss  farmhouse  on  the  island  with  fowls, 
and  children,  and  dogs  scrambling  over  each  other,  a  little 
whitt  skiff  drawn  up  on  the  bank,  and  a  woman  standing 
in  the  rustic  porch,  with  a  baby  in  her  arms,  and  looking, 
under  the  fragrant  arch  of  honeysuckles,  like  a  picture  in 
a  frame.  Then  the  plantation  grew  denser,  and  the  avenue 
lost  itself  in  countless  by-paths  and  windings,  and  there 
were  glimpses,  as  they  flew  along  among  the  trees,  of  a 
distant  park,  and  deer  sporting  therein.  Once  they  drove 
up  a  steep  hillside,  and  on  the  top  there  was  a  view  of  a 
grand  old  house  on  another  hillside,  with  t.;wers,  and 
turrets,  and  many  gables,  and  no  end  of  pinnacles,  and 
muUioned  windows,  and  queer  chimneys,  and  a  great 
cupola,  with  a  flag  flying  on  the  top  ;  and  farther  away 
to  the  left,  there  were  the  ruins  of  some  old  building,  with 
a  huge  stone  cross  pointing  up  to  the  blue  sky,  amid  a 
solemn  grove  of  yew  trees  and  golden  willows,  mingling 
light  and  shade  pleasantly  together.  And  there  were 
beautiful  rose-gardens  to  the  right,  with  bees  and  butter- 
flies glancing  around  them,  and  fountains  splashing  like 
living  jewels  here  and  there,  and  hot-houses,  and  green- 
houses, and  summer-houses,  and  bee-hives,  and  a  perfect 
forest  of  magnificent  horse-chestnuts.  And  farther  away 
still,  there  spread  the  ceaseless  sea,  sparkling  as  if  sown 
with  stars ;  and  still  and  white  beneath  the  rocks,  there 
was  the  fisherman's  village  of  Lower  Cliffe,  sweltering 
under  the  broiling  seaside  sun.  Oh,  it  was  a  wonderful 
place,  was  Castle  Cliffe  ! 

They  were  down  the  hill  in  a  moment,  and  dashing 
through  a  dark,  cool,  beech  wood.  A  slender  crazelle 
came  bounding  along,  lifting  its  large,  tearful,  beautiful 
eyes,  and  vanishing  again  in  affright. 

Colonel  Shirley  uncovered  his  head,  and  reverently 
said  : 

"  It  is  good  to  be  home  ?  " 

Two  minutes  later  they  were  in  a  paved  court-yard. 
A  groom  came  and  led  away  the  horse,  after  looking 
curiously  at  the  strange  gentleman,  who  smiled,  and  fol- 
lowed Lady  Agnes  up  a  flight  of  granite  steps,  and  into  a 
spacious  portico.  A  massive  hall-door  of  oak  and  iron, 
that  swung  on  the  same  honest  hinges  in  the  days  of  the 
Tudor- Plantagenets,  flew  back  to  admit  them,  and  they 


^j 


'i- 

7 


I* 


1;  f 


'   ' 


( 


k 


i 


% 

0 


•■■.'V  I 


I  it!" ' 


H     I 


0    '     I 


II    1 


.     ! 


li 


I ; 


ci  WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 

were  in  an  immense  hall,  carved,  and  painted,  and  pict- 
ured, with  the  Cliffe  coat-of-arms  emMazjned  on  the  ceil- 
ing, and  a  floor  of  bright,  polished  oak,  slippery  as  glass. 
Up  a  great  sweeping  siaircase,  rich  in  busts  and  bronzes 
— where  you  might  have  driven  a  coach  and  four,  and 
done  it  easy — into  another  hall,  and  at  Inst  into  the 
boudoir  of  Lady  Agnes  herself — a  very  modern  apartment, 
indeed,  for  so  old  a  house.  Tapestry  carpeted,  f  amask- 
curtaincd,  with  springy  couches,  and  easy-chairs,  and 
ottomans,  and  little  gems  of  modern  pictures  looking 
down  on  them  from  the  walls. 

"It  is  good  to  be  home  !  "  repeated  Colonel  Shirley, 
looking  round  him  with  a  little,  satisfied  smile,  as  he 
sat  down  in  an  arm-chair;  "but  the  room  is  new  to 
me." 

"Oh  !  I  have  left  the  Agnes  Tower  altogether — such  a 
dismal  place,  you  know,  and  full  of  rats  !  and  I  had  the 
suite  to  which  it  belonged  all  fitted  up  last  year.  Are  you 
hungry,  Cliffe  .?  You  must  have  luncheon,  and  then  you 
shall  tell  me  all  the  news." 

With  which  practical  remark  the  lady  rang,  and  ordered 
her  maid  to  take  off  her  things,  and  send  up  lunch.  And 
when  it  came,  the  traveller  did  ample  justice  to  the  cham- 
pagne and  cold  chicken,  and  answered  his  mamma's 
questions  between  the  mouthfuls. 

"Oh,  there  is  very  little  to  tell,  after  all!  You  know 
I  was  thrown  from  my  horse  that  morning,  after  I  left 
you  at  the  hotel  in  London,  and  it  was  three  weeks  be- 
fore I  was  able  to  go  about  again.  And  then  I  got  a  note 
from  Vivia "  (his  sunny  face  darkened  for  a  moment), 
"  telling  r.:c  that  sLr*  was  ill — dying!  She  was  more. 
When  I  reached  her,  T  found  her — dead  !  " 

But  Lady  Agnes  was  sitting,  very  cold,  and  pale,  and 
upright.  What  was  the  death  of  a  French  actress  to 
her .? 

"There  was  a  child — a  midge  of  a  creature,  a  week 
old,  and  I  left  it  with  the  good  people  with  whom  she 
lodged  and  set  sail  for  India  the  next  morning, — a  des- 
perate man,  1  went  on  praying  that  some  friendly  bullet 
would  put  on  end  to  a  miserable  existence  ;  but  I  bore  a 
charmed  life ;  and  while  my  comrades  fell  around  me  in 
scores,  I  ^caled  ramparts,  and  stormed  breaches,  and  had 
led  forlorn  hopes,  and  came  off  without   a  scratch.     I 


i- 


:now 

left 

be- 

note 

|ent), 

lore. 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


S3 


would  have  made  the  fortune  of  any  Life  Assurance  Com- 
pany in  England  !  "  he  said  with  a  frank  laugh. 

"And  the  child?"  said  Lady  Agnes,  intensely  in- 
terested, 

"  Do  you  really  care  to  know  anything  of  her?  " 

"It  was  a  daughter,  then?  Of  course,  I  do,  you  ab- 
surd boy  !  If  she  lives,  she  is  the  heiress  of  Castle 
Cliffe  !  " 

Colonel  Shirley  took  an  oyster-pate,  with  a  little  ma- 
licious smile. 

"And  the  daughter  of  a  French  actress?  " 

"She  is  my  son's  daughter  !  "  said  Lady  Agnes,  haugh- 
tily. And  with  a  slight  flushing  cheek,  continued,  "Pray, 
go  on  !  " 

"I  sent  money  to  the  people  who  had  her,  and  re- 
ceived in  return  semi-annual  accounts  of  her  health  for 
the  first  six  years.  Then  they  sent  mo  word  that  they 
were  going  to  leave  England,  and  emigrate  to  America, 
and  told  me  to  come  and  take  the  child,  or  send  word 
what  they  should  do  with  her.  I  wanted  to  see  Old 
England  again,  anyway,  and  I  had  natural  feelings,  as 
well  as  the  rest  of  mankind,  so  I  obtained  leave  of 
absence  and  came  back  to  the  old  land.  Don't  look  so 
incredulous,  it  is  quite  true  !  " 

"And  you  never  came  to  see  me.     Oh,  Cliffe  !  " 

"No,"  said  Cliffe,  with  some  of  her  own  coldness.  "  I 
had  not  quite  forgotten  a  certain  scene  in  a  London 
hotel,  at  that  time,  as  I  have  now.  I  came  to  England, 
and  saw  her,  a  sleiider  angel  in  pinafores  and  pantalettes, 
and  I  took  her  with  me,  and  left  her  in  a  French  convent, 
and  there  she  is  safe  and  well  to  this  day." 

Lady  Agnes  started  up  with  clasped  hands  and  ri?diant 
face. 

"Oh,  delightful  !  And  a  descendant  of  mine  will  in- 
herit Castle  Cliffe  after  all !  I  never  could  bear  the  idea 
of  leaving  it  to  Margaret  Shirley.  Cliffe,  you  must  send 
for  the  child  immediately  !  " 

"But  I  don't  think  she  is  a  child  now — she  is  a  young 
lady  of  twelve  years.  Perhaps  she  has  taken  the  veil 
before  this  !  " 

"Oh,  nonsense  !     Have  you  seen  her  since?  " 

'*No  ;  the  Lady  Superior  and  I  have  kept  v.p  a  yearly 
correspondence  on  the  subject,  and  the  young  person  has 


\ 


.( 


I 


\  \ 


[ 


ft 


!,  S 


\l 


n  i 


If'''' 


i 


i  J 


p!' 


■    ht,'  ;:  ■ 


54 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


favored  me  herself  with  a  half  dozen  gilt-edged,  cream- 
Hid,  French  effusions,  beginning,  '  I  embrace  my  dearest 
papa,  a  thousand  times,'  and  ending,  'with  the  most  af- 
fectionate sentiments^  your  devoted  child ! '  How  does 
your  ladyship  like  the  style  of  that  ?  " 

"Cliffe,  don't  be  absurd.  You  are  just  the  same 
great  boy  you  were  twelve  years  ago.  What  is  her 
name?  " 

"Truel  I  forgot  that  part  of  it!  Her  good  foster 
mother  being  at  a  loss  for  a  name,  took  the  liberty  of 
calling  her  after  her  most  graciouo  majesty  herself,  and 
when  I  brought  her  to  the  convent  I  toJd  tliem  there  to 
add  that  of  her  mother ;  so  Mi=s  Shirley  is  Victoria 
Genevieve." 

"What  a  disgrace!  She  ought  to  havo  been  Agnes — 
all  the  Cliffes  are.  But  it's  too  late  now.  Whom  does 
she  resemble,  us  or " 

Her  ladyship  had  the  grace  to  pause. 

"Not  her  mother!  "  said  Colonel  Shirley,  with  perfect 
composure.  "  She  has  blue  eyes  and  light  hair,  and  is 
not  bad  looking.  I  will  start  for  Paris  to-morrow,  if  you 
like,  and  bring  her  home." 

"  No,  no  !  I  cannot  part  with  you,  after  your  twelve 
years'  absence,  in  that  fashion.  I  will  send  Mrs.  Wilder, 
the  housekeeper,  and  Roberts,  the  butler — you  remember 
Roberts,  Cliffe — and  they  will  do  excellently.  I  shall 
not  lose  a  moment.  I  am  fairly  dying  to  see  her,  so  you 
must  write  a  letter  to  the  convent  (oh,  the  idea  of  placing 
my  granddaughter  in  such  a  place  !)  and  Roberts  and  Mrs. 
Wilder  can  start  in  the  afternoon  train." 

Lady  Agnes  could  be  energetic  when  she  chose,  and 
ink  and  paper  were  there  in  a  moment.  Cliffa  laughed 
at  his  mother's  impetuosity,  but  he  wrote  the  letter,  and 
that  very  afternoon,  sure  enough,  the  dignified  house- 
keeper and  the  old  family  butler  were  .  learning  away  on 
their  journey  to  Paris. 

There  had  not  been  such  a  sensation  in  Cliftonlea  for 
years  as  there  was  when  it  became  known  that  the  lost 
heir  had  returned.  Everybody  remembered  the  hand- 
some, laughing,  fair-haired  boy,  who  used  to  dance  with 
the  village  girls  on  the  green,  and  pat  the  children  in  the 
down  streets  on  the  head,  and  throw  them  pennies  ;  and 
about  whom  there  were  so  many  romantic  stories  afloat. 


!M 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


5S 


Lrs. 

and 
rhed 

and 
►use-* 
on 


Everybody  called,  and  the  young  colonel  rode  every- 
where to  see  his  friends,  and  be  shaken  by  the  hand  ;  and 
Lady  Agnes  drove  him  through  Clifton  lea,  with  a  flush  on 
her  cheek,  and  a  light  in  her  eye  which  had  not  been  been 
seen  there  for  many  a  day. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  week  there  was  a  select  dinner* 
party  in  his  honor,  in  his  own  ancestral  hall — a  very 
select  dinner-party,  indeed,  where  no  one  was  present 
but  his  own  relatives  (all  Cliffes  and  Shirleys),  and  a  few 
old  personal  friends.  There  was  Sir  Roland,  of  course, 
who  had  married  and  buried  the  dark-eyed  Cousin  Char- 
lotte, M'hom  Lady  Agnes  had  once  wanted  her  son  towed, 
and  who  was  now  step-father  to  the  little  boy  of  the 
golden  curls  we  saw  at  the  theatre.  The  Bishop  of 
Cliftonlea,  also  a  relative,  was  there  ;  and  Captain  Doug- 
las was  there,  and  Margaret  and  Tom  Shirley,  and  Lord 
Lisle,  and  some  half  dozen  others — <ill  relatives  and  con- 
nections, of  course.  It  was  a  most  enjoyable  and  select 
dinner-party ;  and  Colonel  Shirley,  as  the  lion,  roared 
amazingly,  and  told  them  wonderful  stories  of  hunting 
jackals  and  tigers,  and  riding  elephants  and  camels,  and 
shooting  natives.  And  Lady  Agnes,  in  black  velvet  and 
rubies,  looked  like  a  queen.  And  the  blue  drawing-room, 
after  dinner,  was  gorgeous  with  illuminations,  and  gilding, 
and  jewels,  and  perfumes,  and  music,  and  brilliant  con- 
versation. And  Lady  Agnes  was  just  telling  everybody 
about  her  granddaughter  in  the  Parisian  convent,  ex- 
pected home  now  every  day,  when  there  was  a  great 
bustle  in  the  lower  hall,  and  Tom  Shirley,  who  had  been 
out  to  see,  came  rushing  in,  in  a  wild  state  of  excitement, 
to  say  that  Wilder  and  Roberts  had  returned,  and  with 
them  a  French  bonne   and  the  young  lady  herself. 

It  was  indeed   true  !     The   rightful  heiress   of  Castle 
Cliffe  stood  within  the  halls  of  her  fathers  at  last. 


1   i 


for 

lost 

md- 

rith 

the 

and 

ioat. 


1     ! 


56 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


\\ 


CHAPTER  VII. 


MADEMOISELLE. 


>   r 


m\ 


A  MOMENT  betore,  the  drawing-room  had  been  lively 
enough  with  music,  and  laughter,  and  conversation,  and 
everybody  felt  a  strong  impulse  to  run  out  to  the  hall,  and 
behold  the  daughter  of  Cliffe  Shirley  and  the  French 
actress.  But  it  would  not  have  been  etiquette,  and  no- 
body did  it  except  Tom  Shirley,  who  never  minded  eti- 
quette or  anything  else  ;  and  the  colonel,  who  might  well 
be  pardoned  for  any  breach  in  such  a  case,  and  Lady 
Agnes,  who  rose  in  the  middle  of  an  animated  speech, 
made  a  hasty  apology,  and  sailed  out  after  her  son  and 
nephew. 

They  v/ere  standing  at  the  head  of  the  grand,  sweeping 
staircase,  looking  down  into  the  lower  hall  with  its 
domed  roof  and  huge  chandelier,  A  crowd  of  servants, 
all  anxious  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  their  future  mistress, 
were  assembled  there ;  and  right  under  the  blaze  of  the 
pendant  gas-burners  stood  the  travelers  ;  Mrs.  Wilder,  Mr. 
Roberts,  a  coqueltishly  dressed  lady's  maid,  evidently 
Miss  Shirley's  bonne ;  and,  lastly,  a  small  person  in  a 
gray  clcak  and  little  straw  hat,  undoubtedly  Miss  Shirley 
herself. 

As  Lady  Agnes  reached  the  landing  the  travelers  were 
moving  toward  the  staircase,  and  Mrs.  Wilder,  seeing  her 
ladyshii/"  inquiring  face,  smilingly  answered  it. 

"V  c:  ly  lady,  we  have  brought  her  all  safe  ;  and  here 
she  is. 

The  little  girl  followed  Mrs.  Vv^ilder  quite  slowly  and 
decorou.sly  up  the  stairs,  either  too  much  fatigued  or  with 
too  strong  a  sense  of  the  proprieties  to  run.  It  was  a 
little  thing,  but  it  predisposed  Lady  Agnes — who  had  a 
horror  of  romps — in  her  favor,  and  they  all  stepped  back 
as  she  came  near.  A  pair  of  bright  eyes  under  the  straw 
hat  glanced  quickly  from  face  to  face,  rested  on  the  hand- 
some colonel,  and  with  a  glad,  childish  cry  of  ''Ah,  mon 


lere 

ind 

a 
a 

ick 
law 

Ind- 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


57 


phre  ;  "  the  little  girl  flung  herself  into  his  arms.     It  was 
quit .'  1.  see.  e. 

''My  dear  little  daughter  !  Welcome  to  your  home  !  " 
said  the  colonel,  stooping  to  kiss  her,  with  a  laugh,  and 
yet  with  a  happy  glow  on  his  own  face.  **  I  see  you 
have  not  forgotten  me  in  our  six  years'  separation." 

'*  Aow,  mo7i  pere." 

The  colonel  pressed  her  again,  and  turned  with  her  to 
Lady  Agnes. 

"  Genevieve,  say,  '  How  do  you  do?  '  to  this  lady — it 
is  your  grandmother." 

"  I  hope  madam  is  very  well,"  said  Mademoiselle  Gene- 
vieve, with  sober  simplicity,  holding  up  one  cheek,  and 
then  the  other,  to  be  saluted  in  very  French  fashion. 

"What  a  little  parrot  it  is  !  "  cried  Lady  Agnes,  with  a 
slight  and  somewhat  sarcastic  laugh,  peculiar  to  her. 
"Can  you  not  speak  English,  my  child  ?  " 

"Yes,  madam,"  replied  the  little  girl  in  that  language, 
speaking  clearly  and  distinctly,  but  with  a  strong  accent. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  and  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you, 
too.     Are  you  tired,  my  dear .?  " 

"  No,  madam  ;  only  very  little." 

"Then  we  will  take  off  this  cloak  and  hat,  and  you  will 
stay  with  us  fifteen  minutes  before  you  retire  to  your 
room.     Come." 

The  great  lady  tcok  the  little  girl's  hand  and  led  her, 
with  a  smile  on  her  lips,  into  the  drawing-room.  It  was 
more  a  stroke  of  policy  than  of  curiosity  or  affection  that 
prompted  the  action  ;  for  one  glance  had  h>atisfied  Lady 
Agnes  that  the  child  was  naturally  presentable,  and  she 
was  anxious  to  display  her  to  her  friends  before  they  could 
maliciously  say  she  had  been  tutoring  her. 

And  the  next  moment  mademoiselle,  fresh  from  the 
sober  twilight  of  her  convent,  found  herself  in  the  full 
blaze  of  a  grand  drawing-room,  that  seemed  filled  with 
people  and  all  staring  at  her.  Half  recoiling  on  the  thresh- 
old, timid  and  shy,  but  not  vulgarly  so,  she  was  drawn 
steadily  on  by  the  lady's  strong,  small  hand,  and  heard 
the  clear  voice  saying  : 

"It  is  my  granddaughter.  Let  me  take  off  your  wrap- 
pings, my  dear."  And  then,  with  her  ©wn  fair  fingers, 
the  shrouding  hat  and  cloak  were  removed,  and  the  little 
heiress  stood  in  the  full  glow  of  the  lights  revealed. 


i.     ! 


'!:         'ii 


l! 


If 


'lii 


.jti 


'i 

If 

I   i!  I 


;•'•;■; 


iii 


n 


M 


58 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


Everybody  paused  an  instant  to  look  at  her  father  and 
grandmother,  and,  after  this  momentrary  inspection  of 
the  two  older  persons,  turned  again  to  the  little  visitor.  A 
slender  angel,  quite  small  for  her  age,  with  the  tiniest 
hands  and  feet  in  the  world — but  then  all  the  Cliffes  had 
been  noted  for  that  trait — a  small,  pale  face,  very  pale 
just  now,  probably  from  fatigue,  delicate,  regular  features, 
and  an  exuberance  of  light  hair,  of  the  same  flaxen  light- 
ness as  Lady  Agnes'  own. 

Her  dress  was  high-necked  and  long-sleeved,  soft  and 
gray  in  shade,  thick  and  rich  in  texture,  and  slightly 
trimmed  with  peach-colored  ribbons.  The  eyes  were 
downcast,  the  little  head  drooping  in  pardonable  embar- 
rassment ;  and  with  the  small,  pale  face,  the  almost  color- 
less hair,  and  dingy  gray  dress,  she  did  not  look  very 
dazzling,  certainly.  But  Lady  Agnes  had  the  eye  of  an 
eagle,  and  she  saw  that,  under  different  auspices  and  in 
different  costume,  Miss  Shirley  was  not  wholly  an  un- 
promising case.  She  was  not  awkward ;  she  might  some 
day  yet  be  even  pretty. 

All  the  ladies  came  forward  to  kiss  her  ;  and  Miss  Lisle, 
who  saw  in  her  already  the  future  bride  of  Lord  Henry, 
went  into  perfect  raptures  over  her.  Some  of  the  gentle- 
men kissed  her,  too ;  foremost  among  whom  was  Master 
Tom  Shirley,  who  was  mentally  contrasting  her,  to  her 
great  disadvantage  with  the  silver-gilt  Infant  Venus,  on 
whom  he  had  lavished  his  youthful  affections. 

And  yet,  in  the  midst  of  all  this  caressing,  there  stood 
one  Mordecai  at  the  king's  gate,  who  did  not  seem  in- 
clined to  fall  down  and  adore  the  rising  star.  It  was  Mar- 
garet Shirley  who,  in  amber  gauze,  and  fluttering  ribbons, 
and  creamy  flowers,  looked  dark,  and  pale,  and  unlovely 
as  ever ;  and  who  hung  back,  either  from  timidity  or  some 
worse  feeling,  until  the  sharp  blue  eyes  of  her  aunt  fell 
upon  her. 

"Margaret,  come  here,  and  embrace  your  cousin," 
called  that  lady  in  authoritative  displeasure  ;  for  Miss 
Margaret  was  no  favorite  at  the  best  of  times.  "My 
dear  child,  this  is  your  cousin,  Margaret  Shirley." 

Mademoiselle,  a  good  deal  recovered  from  her  embar- 
rassment, raised  her  eyes — very  large,  very  bright,  very 
blue — and  fixed  them,  with  a  look  that  had  something  of 
Lady  Agnes'  own  piercing  intenseness,  on  the  sallow  and 


l\ 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


59 


>i 


^bar- 

|very 

ig  of 

and 


unhealthy  face  of  Cousin  Margaret.  A  cold  look  came 
over  it,  as  if  with  tha.  glance  she  had  conceived  a  sudden 
antipathy  to  her  new  relative,  and  the  cheek  she  turned 
to  be  saluted  was  offered  with  marked  reserve, 

Margaret  murmured  low  some  words  of  welcome,  to 
which  an  unsmiling  face  and  a  very  slight  bend  of  the 
head  were  returned ;  and  then  Genevieve  shrank  back 
to  her  grandmother,  and  the  blue  eyes  went  wandering 
wistfully  round  the  room.  They  rested,  on  those  for 
whom  she  was  seeking — her  father's.  He  held  out  his 
hand,  with  a  smile,  and  in  a  twinkling  the  grave  little  face 
was  radiant  and  transformed,  and  she  was  over  and  cling- 
ing to  his  arm,  and  looking  up  in  his  face  with  dancing 
eyes. 

It  was  quite  evident  that  while  all  the  rest  there  were 
mere  shadows  to  her,  seen  and  thought  of  now  for  the 
first  time,  mon  pere  was  a  vivid  image  in  reality,  beloved 
and  dreamed  of  for  years. 

"  Were  you  sorry  to  leave  your  convent,  Genevieve  ?" 
he  asked,  sitting  down  in  an  arm-chair,  and  lifting  her 
on  his  knee. 

"Oh,  no,  papa!"  she  answered,  readily,  speaking  in 
English,  as  he  had  done. 

"And  why?  Your  friends  are  all  there;  and  here, 
everybody  is  strange." 

"Not  everybody,  papa — you  are  here  !  " 

"And  she  only  saw  me  once  in  her  life,  and  that's  six 
years  ago,"  laughed  the  colonel,  looking  down  at  the 
little  face  nestling  against  his  shoulder. 

"But  I  dreamed  of  you  every  day  and  every  night, 
papa  ;  and  then  your  letters — oh,  those  beautiful  letters  ! 
I  have  them  every  one,  and  have  read  them  over  a  thou- 
sand times  ! " 

"  My  good  little  girl  !  and  she  loves  papa,  then  ?  " 

"Better  than  everything   else   in   the   world,  papa!" 

"Thank  you,  mademoiselle!"  still  laughing;  "and 
grandmamma — you  mean  to  love  her  too,  don't  you  ? " 

"  Why  certainly  !  "  said  mademoiselle  with  gravity. 

' '  And  your  uncle  and  your  cousins  ?  There  is  one 
now — how  do  you  think  you  will  like  him  ?  " 

Tom  Shirley  was  standing  near,  with  his  hands,  boy 
fashion,  in  his  pockets,  listening  with  an  air  of  preter- 
natural solemnity  to  the  conversation,  and  the  colonel 


6o 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


■    ■!'! 


turned  his  laughing  face  toward  him.  Miss  Genevieve 
glanced  up  and  over  Tom  virith  calm  and  serious  dignity. 

"I  don't  know,  papa — I  don't  like  boys  at  all — that  is, 
except  Claude  !  " 

"Who  is  Claude,  my  dear?" 

"Oh,  you  know,  don't  you?  His  father  is  La  Marquis 
de  St.  Hilary  ;  and  I  spent  the  last  vacation  at  the  cha- 
teau, away  out  in  the  country." 

"  Grand  connections  !     Who  sent  my  lii.tle  girl  there  ?  " 

"  I  went  with  Ignacia — that's  his  sister  ;  and  wc  are  in 
the  same  division  at  school.  Papa,"  in  a  whisper  "  is 
that  gill  \jVqv  there,  in  the  yellov/  dress,  his  sister.''  " 

"  No,  my  darling.     Why  ?  " 

"  For  they  have  black  eyes  and  black  hair  alike,  only 
his  is  curly,  and  ho  is  a  great  deal  handsomer.  Grand- 
TP  "ima  said  she  was  my  cousin — is  she  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  and  his." 

"  Does  she  live  here  ?  " 

"Yes,  they  both  live  here.  Well,  what  now — don't 
you  like  them  ? " 

"  I  don't  like  her  at  all !     Oh,  how  ugly  she  is  !  " 

The  colonel  laughed,  and  laid  his  hand  over  her  lips. 

"  My  dear  Genevieve,  what  are  you  saying  ?  It  will 
never  do  for  you  to  talk  in  that  fashion.  Maggie  is  the 
best  little  girl  in  the  \/orld,  and  she  will  be  a  nice  com- 
panion for  you  to  play  with." 

' '  I  sha'n't  play  with  her  !  I  sha'n't  like  her  at  all !  " 
said  Genevieve,  with  decision.  "What  makes  her  live 
here  ? " 

"Because  she  is  an  orphan,  and  has  no  other  home, 
and  I  know  you  will  be  kind  to  her,  Genevieve.  Who 
taught  you  to  speak  English  as  well  as  you  do  ?  " 

"Oh,  we  had  an  English  teacher  in  the  convent,  and  a 
great  :-nany  of  the  girls  were  English,  and  we  used  to 
speak  it  a  great  deal.  Did  I  tell  you  in  my  last  I'etter  how^ 
many  prizes  I  got  at  the  distribution  ?  " 

"  I  foiget — tell  me  again  ?  " 

"I  got  the  first  prize  in  our  division  for  singing  and 
English ;  the  second  for  music  and  drawing,  ma  he- 
matics, and  astronomy." 

' '  Whew  !  "  whistled  Tom,  still  an  attentive  lisienev. 
"This  litiie  midge  talcing  the  prize  in  mathen.^iit'.'ts^ 
What  an  idea  that  is  I  " 


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WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


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"Can  you  sing  and  play,  then  ?  " 

"Yes,  papa,  certainly  !  *' 

"Then,  suppose,  you  favor  us  w  th  a  song.  I  should 
like  to  hear  you  sing,  of  all  tilings,"  jaid  the  colonel,  still 
in  his  half-laughing  way. 

"Oh,  my  dear  Cliffe,  the  child  must  be  too  tired  !  "  said 
Lady  Agnes,  sailing  up  at  the  moment,  and  not  caring 
half  so  much  for  the  child's  fatigue  as  the  idea  that  she 
might  make  a  show  of  herself 

"  1  am  not  fatigued  ;  but  I  don't  like  to  sing  before  so 
many  ladies  and  gentlemen,  papa,"  whispered  Miss  Gene- 
vieve, blushing  a  little. 

' '  Oh,  nonsense  !  I  am  certain  they  will  be  delighted. 
Come  along." 

Miss  Lisle  having  just  favored  the  company  with  a 
Swiss  composition,  that  had  a  great  many  "tra  la-las"  at 
the  end  of  each  verse,  closed  with  a  shrill  shriek  and  a 
terrific  bang  of  all  the  keys  at  once,  and  arose  from  the 
instrument.  Colonel  Shirley,  holding  his  little  daughter's 
hand,  led  her,  reluctant  and  blushing,  to  the  seat  the 
young  lady  had  vacated,  amid  a  profound  silence  of  curi- 
ous expectation. 

"What  shall  I  sing,  papa?"  inquired  mademoiselle, 
running  her  fingers  lightly  over  the  keys,  and  recovering 
her  self-possession  when  she  found  herself  hopelessly  in 
for  it. 

"Oh,  whatever  you  please.  We  are  willing  to  be  en- 
chanted with  anything." 

Thus  encouraged,  mademoiselle  played  a  somewhat 
difficult  prelude  from  memory,  and  then,  in  a  clear,  sweet 
soprano,  broke  out  into  "Casta  Diva."  Her  voice  was 
rich  and  clear,  and  full  of  pathos  ;  her  touch  highly  cul- 
tivatL'd  ;  iier  expression  perfect.  Evidently  her  musical 
talent  was  wonderful,  or  she  had  the  best  of  teachers, 
and  a^^  excellent  power  of  imitation.  Everybody  was 
astonished — no  one  more  so  than  papa,  who  had  expected 
some  simple  French  chansonnette,  and  Lady  Agnes  was 
equally  amazed  and  delighted.  The  room  rang  with 
plaudits  when  she  ceased  ;  and,  coloring  visibly.  Made- 
moiselle Genevieve  rose  quickly,  and  sought,  shrinking, 
shelter  under  papa's  wings. 

"  It  is  a  most  v/onderful  child  !  "  said  Miss  Lisle,  holding 
up  her  hands.    '  *  No  professional  couxd  have  sung  it  better. " 


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"She  sings  well,"  said  Lady  Agnes,  smiling  graciously 
on  the  little  performer,  and  patting  the  now  hot  check 
with  her  gold  and  ivory  fan.  "  But  she  is  tired  now,  and 
must  go  to  rest.     Tom,  ring  for  Mrs.  Wilder." 

Tom  rang,  and  Mrs.  Wilder  came. 

"Bid  your  friends  good-night,  my  dear,"  said  Lady 
Agnes. 

Mademoiselle  did  so,  courtesying  with  the  prettiest 
childlike  grace  imaginable. 

"You  will  take  her  to  the  Rose  Room,  Mrs.  Wilder, 
next  my  boudoir.  Good-night,  my  love.  Pleasant 
dreams  !  " 

And  Lady  Agnes  finished  by  kissing  her,  and  turn- 
ing her  and  the  housekeeper  out  of  the  drawing-room. 

"  Where  is  Jeannctte,  madam  ?"  inquired  Miss  Shirley, 
as  she  tripped  along  up  another  grand  staircase,  and 
through  halls  and  corridors,  beside  the  housekeeper. 

"  In  your  room,  Miss  Vivia,  waiting  for  you." 

"  Is  she  to  sleep  near  me?  I  must  have  Jeannette near 
me." 

"  She  is  to  sleep  in  a  little  closet  off  your  room.  Here 
it  is.     Good-night,  Miss  Vivia." 

But  Miss  Vivia  did  not  speak.  She  had  stopped  in  the 
doorway  in  an  ecstasy  of  admiration  and  delighi.  And 
no  wonder.  In  all  her  childish  dreams  of  beauty,  in  all 
she  had  seen  at  the  chateau  and  Hotel  de  St.  Hilary,  there 
had  never  been  anything  half  so  beautiful  as  this.  The 
apartment  had  once  been  Lady  Agnes'  study,  where  she 
received  her  steward,  and  transacted  all  her  business  ; 
but  during  the  last  v^'^eek,  it  had  been  newly  furnished 
and  fitted  up  for  the  youthful  heiress.  Her  own  rooms — 
bathroom,  dressing-room,  bedroom,  and  boudoir — were 
all  en  suite,  and  this  was  the  last  of  them.  The  feet  sank 
in  the  carpet  of  pale  rose-colored  velvet,  sown  all  over 
with  white  buds  and  deep-green  leaves ;  the  walls  were 
paneled  in  pink  satin,  bordered  v/:th  silver;  and  the 
great  Maltese  window  was  draped  in  rose  velvet,  cut  in 
antique  points.  The  lofty  ceiling  was  fretted  in  rose  and 
silver,  and  the  chairs  of  some  white  wood,  polished  till 
they  shone  like  ivory,  were  cushioned  in  the  same  glow- 
ing tints  ;  so  were  the  couches,  and  a  great  carved  and 
gilded  easy-chair ;  and  the  flashing  chandelier  of  frosted 
silver,  with  burners  shaped  like  lilies^  had  deep  red  shades, 


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filling  the  room  with  rosy  radiance.  The  bed  in  a  dis- 
tant alcove,  screened  with  filmy  white  lace  curtains,  was 
carved  and  gilded  in  the  same  snow-white  wood  ,  and 
over  the  head,  standing  on  a  Grecian  bracket,  was  a 
beautiful  statue  of  the  "Guardian  Angel,"  with  folded 
wings,  drooping  head,  outstretched  arms,  and  smiling 
face.  The  inlaid  tables  were  exquisite  ;  a  liible  lay  on 
one  of  them,  bound  in  gold  and  rose  velvet,  with  the 
name  "Victoria  Genevieve"  in  gold  letters  on  the  cover; 
a  gilded  bird-cage,  with  two  or  three  brilliant  tropical 
b'rds  therein,  was  pendant  near  the  window  ;  and  over 
the  carved  mantel  of  Egyptian  marble  hung  the  exquisite 
picture  of  "Christ  Blessing  Little  Children."  The  whole 
thing  had  been  the  design  of  Lady  Agnes,  r./ery  article 
it  contained  had  been  critically  inspected  before  being 
placed  there,  and  the  effect  was  perfect.  In  it,  Moore 
might  have  written  "  Lalla  Rookh,"  and  not  even  Fadla- 
deen  could  have  found  anything  to  grumble  at ;  and 
little  Genevieve  clapped  her  hands  in  an  ecstasy  of  speech 
and  delight. 

"It  is  perfect,  mademoiselle  !  "  exclaimed  Jeannctte, 
the  maid  who  had  attended  the  little  girl  from  Paris. 
"Look  at  this  lovely  dressing-case  I  And  here  is  the 
wardrobe  with  such  great  mirror-doors ;  and  in  this 
Psyche  glass  I  can  see  myself  from  top  to  toe  ;  and  here 
is  a  door  at  the  foot  of  your  bed  opening  into  grandmam- 
ma's boudoir  ;  and  this  cedar  closet — docs  it  not  smell 
deliciously  ? — oh,  this  is  my  sleeping-room  ! 

"Oh,  it  is  beautiful!  There  is  nothing  at  all  in  the 
Hotel  de  St.  Hilary  like  it  !     It  is  like  heaven  !  " 

"Yes,  mademoiselle  ;  and  your  grandmamma  is  a  very 
great  lady  ;  and  they  say  downstairs  there  is  not  a  finer 
house  in  all  England  than  this,  and  that  you  wil?  be  the 
richest  heiress  ever  heard  of !  " 

"That  is  charming!  I  will  sit  in  this  great,  beautiful 
chair,  and  you  may  take  my  dress  off,  and  brush  out  my 
hair.     Did  you  see  my  papa,  Jeannette  ?  " 

"Yes,  mademoiselle.      He  looks  like  a  king." 

"And  I  love  him  !  Oh,  I  love  him  better  than  all  the 
whole  world  !  And  ma  grandmcre — you  saw  her,  too, 
Jeannette?  She  makes  one  afraid  of  her,  in  her  splendid 
dress  and  rubies — far  finer  than  anything  that  INIadame 
la  Marquise  de  St.  Hilary  ever  wore ;   but  she  is  very 


64 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


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grand  and  handsome,  and  I  admire  her  ever  so  much  I 
And  my  cousins — you  did  not  see  them,  did  you,  Jean- 
nctto  ?  " 

"  No,  mademoiselle.     Do  you  like  them  ?  " 

"  I  don't  like  one  of  them  at  all.  Mademoiselle  Mar- 
guerite— oh,  she  is  so  ugly,  and  has  such  a  yellow  skin  I 
Just  as  yellow  as  poor  old  Sister  Lucia,  in  the  convent. 
There,  Jeannette,  you  can  go.  I  shall  say  my  prayers 
and  go  to  bed.     Oh,  what  a  lovely  room  this  is  !  " 

The  flaxen  hair  was  gathered  in  a  little  cambric  night- 
cap ;  the  gray  dress  exchanged  for  a  long  sac  dc  nuii ; 
and  everything  being  done,  Jeannette  vanished,  and 
mademoiselle  said  her  prayers  with  sleepy  devotion,  and 
climbed  in,  and  sunk  from  sight  in  pillows  of  down  ;  and, 
thinking  how  splendid  everything  was,  fell  asleep. 

Lady  Agnes  Shirley,  waking  at  some  gray  and  dismal 
hour  of  tlie  early  morning,  felt  a  strong  impulse  of  curi- 
osity promi^ting  her  to  rise  up  and  take  a  look  at  her  little 
granddaughter  asleep.  So,  arisi.'ig,  she  donned  slippers 
and  dressing-gown,  entered  the  boudoir,  softly  opened 
the  door  of  communication  between  it  and  her  little  girl's 
room,  and  looked  in. 

And  there  a  surprise  awaited  her.  Instead  of  finding 
mademoiselle  fast  asleep  among  the  pillows,  something 
half-dressed,  a  fairy  in  a  white  morning  gown,  stood 
with  her  back  toward  her,  trying — yes,  actually  trying  to 
make  the  bed  !  But  the  ambitious  effort  was  unavailing  ; 
the  small  arms  could  by  no  means  reach  half-way  across, 
and  the  little  hands  could  not  shake  up  the  mighty  sea  of 
down,  and,  with  a  long-drawn  sigh,  the  heiress  of  the 
Shirlcys  gave  up  the  attempt  at  last. 

Then  she  went  to  the  basin,  washed  her  face  and  hands, 
brushed  out  the  profusion  of  her  pcde  hair,  and  then  com- 
ing back,  knelt  down  under  the  "Guardian  Angel,"  and 
with  clasped  hands  and  upraised  eyes,  began  to  pray. 

The  child  looked  almost  lovely  at  that  moment,  in  her 
loose  drapery,  her  unbound  falling  hair,  her  clear,  pale 
face,  clasped  hands,  and  uplifted  earnest  eyes.  But  Lady 
Agnes  was  a  great  deal  too  stupefied  at  the  whole  ex- 
traordinary scene  to  think  of  admiration,  or  even  think 
at  all,  and  could  do  nothing  but  stand  there  and  look 


en. 


A  quarter  of  an  hour  passed,  and  the  little  girl  did  not 


i,\ 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


65 


stir ;  half  an  hour,  the  little  saint  prayed  still,  when  the 
door  of  the  cedar  closet  opened,  and  out  came  Jeannette. 
Genevieve  finished  her  devotions  and  arose. 

"Now,  mademoiselle,  what  have  you  been  about? 
You  have  never  been  trying;  to  make  that  bed  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  have,  though,  but  I  couldn't  do  it.  It's  so 
very  large,  you  see,  Jeannette." 

"  Mademoiselle,  I  am  surprised  at  you.  What  would 
your  grandmamma  say  if  she  knew  it  ?  " 

IVIademoiselie  opened  her  bright  blue  eyes  in  undis- 
guised surprise. 

"  Knew  what  ?     What  have  I  done  .-*  " 

"You  arc  not  to  make  beds,  mademoiselle!"  said 
Jeannette,  laughing.  "  I  am  sure  your  grandmamma  does 
not  expect  you  to  do  anything  of  the  sort." 

"But  I  have  always  done  it.  We  all  made  our  own 
beds  in  tlie  convent,  except  the  very  little  pupils." 

"  Well,  this  is  not  a  convent,  but  a  castle  ;  and  you 
know,  Mademoiselle  Vivia,  there  is  a  proverb  that  we 
must  do  in  Rome  as  the  Romans  do.  So  you  need  not 
do  it  any  more,  or  they'll  think  you  have  been  a  house- 
maid in  France  ;  and  another  thing — what  in  the  world 
do  you  get  up  so  early  for?  " 

"  Early  !  Why,  the  sun  is  rising,  and  we  always  got 
up  before  the  sun  in  the  convent." 

"The  con  vent  I  the  convent  !  Please  to  remember  you 
are  not  in  a  convent  now,  mademoiselle,  and  sunrise  is 
a  very  early  hour.  There  is  not  one  up  in  the  house, 
I  believe,  but  ourselves." 

**I  don't  care   for  that;  I  shall  get  upas  early  as  I 
please,   unless  papa  or  grandmamma  prevent  it,  and  I' 
don't  think  they  will.     So  here,  curl  my  hair,  and  say  no 
more  about  it." 

Jeannette  twined  the  flaxen  tresses  over  her  fingers  and 
let  them  fall  in  a  shining  shower  to  the  child's  waist. 
Then  a  dress  of  fresh  white  muslin  was  brought  out  and 
put  on,  a  sash  of  broad  blue  ribbon  knotted  round  the 
little  waist,  and  Lady  Agnes,  from  her  watching-place, 
admitted,  what  she  could  not  last  night,  that  her  grand- 
daughter was  pretty. 

"Now,"  said  madenoiselle,  tying  her  straw  hat  over 
her  pretty  curls,  "I  saw  seme  lovely  rose-gardens  out  of 
the  window,  and  you  must  come  with  me  to  see  them. 


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Do  you  think  you  can  find  your  ivay   to  the  door?    It  is 

such  II  ci^rcat  house,  this  !  " 

"  I  will  see.     Conie  along- !  " 

The  two  went  out  of  the  Rose  Room,  and  Lady  Agnes, 
having  got  the  oetter  of  her  amazement,  laughed  her  low 
and  sarcastic  laugh,  and  went  back  to  her  own  bed- 
chamber. 

"  It  is  a  prodigy,  this  little  granddaughter  of  mine,  and 
so  French  !  I  am  afraid  she  takes  after  that  dreadful 
French  actress,  though,  thank  Heaven,  she  dees  not  look 
like  her.  Well,  if  they  have  taught  her  nothing  woise 
than  getting  up  at  sunrise  in  her  French  conveni,  they 
have  done  no  harm  after  all.  But  what  an  extraordinary 
child  it  is,  to  be  sure  !  She  took  iv^  that  exhibition  of  her- 
self quite  naturally  last  evening — tho  French  actress  again  ! 
And  that  odious  name  of  Genevieve  !  I  wish  I  could 
have  her  christened  over  again  and  called  Agnes  ;  but  I 
suppose  Victoria  will  do,  for  want  of  a  better.'' 

The  young  lady  thus  apostrophized  was  meantime  hav- 
ing a  very  good  time,  out  among  the  rose-gardens  and 
laurel  walks.  Jeannette  had  found  her  way  through  some 
side  door  or  other;  and  now  the  little  white  fairy,  with 
the  blue  ribbons,  and  flittering  flaxen  curls,  was  darting 
hither  and  thither  among  the  parterres  like  some  pretty 
white  bird.  Now  she  was  watching  the  swans  sailing 
serenely  about  in  the  mimic  lakes  ;  now  she  was  looking 
at  the  gold-fish  glancing  in  the  fountains;  now  she  was 
lost  in  admiration  of  a  great  peacock,  strutting  up  and 
down  or  one  of  the  terraces,  with  the  first  rays  of  sun- 
shine sparkling  on  his  outspread  tail — a  tail  which  its  own- 
er evidently  admired  quite  as  mucxi  as  the  little  girl  ;  now 
she  was  hunting  squirrels  ;  now  she  was  listening  to  the 
twittering  of  the  birds  in  the  beechwood  and  through  the 
shrubbery  ;  now  she  was  gathering  roses  and  carnati'>ns 
to  make  bouquets  Tor  papa  and  grandmamma  ;  and  anon 
she  v.-as  running  up  and  down  the  terraces,  with  dress, 
and  ribbons,  and  curls  streaming  in  the  wind,  a  bloom  on 
her  cheek,  and  a  ligh^  in  her  eye,  and  a  bounding,  elastic 
life  in  every  step,  that  would  make  one's  pulses  leap  from 
sympathy  only  to  look  at  her. 

The  time  went  by  like  magic.  Even  the  staid  Jeannette 
so  far  forgot  the  proprieties  as  to  be  coaxed  into  a  race  up 
and  down  the  green  lanes  between  the  chestnut  trees ; 


'■i;? 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


67 


and  coming  flying  back,  breathless  and  panting,  Gene- 
vieve ran  plump  into  the  arms  of  the  colonel,  who  stood 
on  the  lawn,  laughing,  and  smoking  his  matin  cigar. 

"You  wild  gypsy  !  Is  this  the  sort  of  thing  they  have 
been  teaching  you  in  your  sober  convent  ?  At  what  un- 
christian hour  did  you  rise  this  morning  ?  and  who  are 
those  bouquets  for  ?  " 

"One  is  for  you,  papa;  and  I've  been  out  here  three 
hours,  and  I  am  so,  so  hungry  !  "  laughing  merrily,  and 
pressing  the  hand  he  held  out  for  the  flowers. 

"  That's  right  !  stick  to  that,  if  you  can,  and  you  will 
not  need  any  rouge  ;  your  cheeks  are  redder  now  than 
your  roses.  There !  they  are  in  my  button-hole,  and 
while  I  smoke  my  cigar  down  the  avenue  do  you  go  in 
with  your  maid,  and  get  some  bread  and  milk." 

Vivia  ran  off  after  Jeannette,  and  a  housemaid  brought 
them  the  bread  and  milk  into  the  breakfast-parlor. 

Like  all  the  rooms  in  the  house,  it  was  handsome,  and 
handsomely  furnished  ;  but  Vivia  saw  only  one  thing — a 
portrait  over  the  mantel  of  Master  Cliffe  Shirley  at  the  age 
of  fifteen.  He  wore  the  costume  of  a  young  Highland 
chief — a  plumed  bonnet  on  his  princely  head,  a  plaid  of 
Rob  Roy  tartan  over  his  shoulders,  and  a  bow  and  arrow 
in  his  hand.  T"  handsome,  laughing  face,  the  bright, 
frank,  cheery  eyes,  the  becoming  dress,  gave  the  picture 
a  fascination  that  riveted  the  gaze  even  of  strangers. 

Lady  Agnes  Shirley,  cold,  hard  woman  of  the  world, 
had  wept  heart-broken  tears  over  that  splendid  face  in  the 
days  when  she  thought  him  dead  under  an  Indian  sky  ; 
and  now  his  little  daughter  dropped  on  one  knee  before 
it,  and  held  up  her  clasped  hands,  with  a  cry  : 

"Oh,  my  handsome  papa  !  Everything  in  this  place 
is  beautiful,  but  he  is  ihe  best  of  all  1  " 


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WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


1^1 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


CASTLE    CLIFFE. 


Lady  Agnes  was  not  an  early  riser.  Noon  usually  found 
her  breakfasting  in  her  boudoir  ;  but  on  this  particular 
morning  she  came  sailing  downstairs,  to  the  infinite 
astonishment  and  amazement  of  all  beholders,  just  as  the 
little  French  clock  in  the  breakfast-parlor  was  chiming 
eight. 

Genevieve  sat  on  an  ottoman  opposite  the  mantel,  with 
a  porcelain  bowl  on  her  lap,  a  silver  spoon  in  her  hand, 
gazing  intently  at  the  portrait  and  feasting  her  eyes  and 
her  palate  at  the  same  time.  She  started  up  as  Lady 
Agnes  entered,  with  a  smiling  courtesy,  and  came  forward 
with  frank  grace,  holding  up  her  blooming  cheeks  to  be 
saluted. 

* '  Good-morning,  petite  /  Fresh  as  a  rosebud,  I  see  !  So 
you  were  up  and  out  of  your  nest  before  the  birds  this 
morning  !  Was  it  because  you  did  not  sleep  well  last 
night.?*"' 

"Oh,  no,  madam.  I  slept  very  well ;  but  I  always  rise 
early.     It  is  not  wrong,  is  it?  " 

**  By  no  means.  I  like  to  see  little  girls  up  with  the 
sun.     Well,  Tom,  good-morning  !  " 

"Can  I  believe  my  eyes  .''  "  exclaimed  Tom  Shirley,  en- 
tering, and  starting  back  in  affected  horror  at  the  sight. 
"Do  I  really  behold  my  Aunt  Agnes,  or  is  this  her 
ghost  ?  " 

"Oh,  nonsense!  Ring  the  bell.  Have  you  seen  the 
colonel  ?  Oh,  here  he  comes.  Have  you  ordered  the 
carriage  to  be  in  readiness,  Cliffe?  " 

"Yes.  W^hat  is  the  program  for  to-day?  '  said  the 
colonel,  sauntering  in. 

"  You  know  we  are  to  return  all  those  calls.  Such  a 
bore,  too  !  and  this  the  first  day  of  our  little  girl's  stay 
among  us  !     What  will  you  do  all  day,  my  dear?  " 

"Oh,    she  will   amuse   herself,  never  fear,"  said  the 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


69 


the 
the 

the 


the 


colonel.  "I  found  her  racing  like  a  wild  Indian.  Don't 
blush,  Vivia,  it's  all  right.  And  she  can  spend  the  day 
in  exploring  the  place  with  her  maid." 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  the  house,  Victoria  ?  "  inquired 
Lady  Agnes,  taking  her  place  at  the  head  of  the  table, 
and  laying  marked  emphasis  on  the  name. 

"  If  it  does  not  inconvenience  you  at  all,  madam." 

"Let  Margaret  stay  from  school,  then,  and  show  her 
the  place,"  said  the  colonel. 

"Margaret !  Absurd  !  Margaret  couldn't  show  it  any 
more  than  a  cat.  Tom,  can  you  not  get  a  half-holiday 
this  afternoon,  and  show  Cousin  Victoria  over  the  house  ?  " 

"Certainly,  if  that  young  gentlewoman  herself  does 
not  object,"  said  Tom,  buttering  his  roll,  with  gravity. 

The  small  gentlewoman  in  question,  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor,  in  her  white  dress,  and  blue  ribbons, 
and  flaxen  curls  falling  to  her  waist,  did  not  object  ; 
though,  had  Margaret  been  decided  on  as  chaperon,  she 
probably  would  have  done  so.  Both  cousins  had  been 
met  last  night  for  the  first  time,  but  her  feelings  toward 
them  were  quite  different.  Toward  Tom  they  were  nega- 
tive ;  she  did  not  dislike  him,  but  she  did  not  care  for  him 
one  way  or  the  other.  Toward  Margaret  they  were  posi- 
tive repulsion,  and  expressed  exactly  what  she  felt  toward 
that  young  person.  Still  she  looked  a  little  doubtful  as  to 
the  propriety  of  being  chaperoned  by  a  great  boy  six  feet 
high  ;  but  grandmamma  suggested  it,  and  papa  was  smil- 
ing over  at  her,  so  there  could  be  no  impropriety,  and  she 
courtesied  gravely  in  assent,  and  walked  toward  the  door. 

Margaret  entered  at  the  same  moment,  arrayed  in  pink 
muslin.  She  passed  mademoiselle  with  a  low  "Good- 
morning,  Cousin  Genevieve  !  "  and  took  her  place  at  the 
table. 

"Won't  you  stay  and  take  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  roll 
with  us  ? "  called  her  father  after  her,  as  she  stood  in  the 
hall,  balancing  herself  on  one  foot,  and  beating  time,  a  la 
mililaire,  with  the  other. 

"No,  papa,  thank  you;  I  never  drink  coffee.  We 
always  had  bread  and  milk  for  breakfast  in  the  convent." 

"Oh,  I'm  tired  of  such  reminders  !"  exclaimed  Lady 
Agnes,  pettishly.  "  We  will  have  another  martyred  ab- 
bess in  the  family,  Cliffe,  if  you  ever  send  the  little  fairy 
back  to  her  Paris  school. " 


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WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


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Immediately  after  breakfast,  Tom  slung  his  satchel 
over  his  shoulder,  and  set  out  with  Margaret  to  Clifton- 
lea,  telling  that  young  lady,  as  he  went,  he  expected  it 
would  be  jolly  showing  the  little  original  over  the  house. 
And  as  her  toilet  was  made,  Lady  Agnes  and  her  son 
rolled  away  in  the  gra'^d  family  carriage,  emblazoned 
with  .AC  Cliffe  coat-of-arms,  and  Genevieve  was  left  to 
her  own  devices. 

In  all  her  life  she  could  not  remember  a  morning  that 
went  so  swiftly  as  thai,  flying  about  in  the  sunshine,  half- 
wild  with  the  sense  of  liberty,  and  th^e  hitherto  unimagined 
delights  of  the  place.  She  found  her  way  to  the  Svviss 
farm-house,  and  was  transported  by  the  little  pigs,  and 
calves,  and  poultry  ;  and  she  and  Jeannette  got  into  the 
little  white  boat,  and  were  rowed  over  the  sparkling 
ripples  of  the  lake  by  one  of  the  farmer's  girls.  She  wan- 
dered away  down  even  to  the  extreme  length  of  the  grand 
avenue,  tiring  Jeannette  nearly  to  death  ;  made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  the  lodgekeeper  and  his  wife  in  the  Italian 
villa,  and  was  even  more  enchanted  by  a  little  baby  they 
had  there  than  she  had  been  before  by  the  pigs  and  calves  ; 
and  when  Tom  returned  for  his  early  dinner  at  one  o'clock, 
he  found  her  swinging  backward  and  forward  through 
space,  like  an  animated  pendulum,  in  a  great  swing  in 
the  trees. 

The  young  lady  and  gentleman  had  a  lete-a-tete  dinner 
that  day,  for  Margaret  was  a  half-boarder  at  the  Cliftonlea 
Female  Academy,  and  always  dined  there  ;  and  before 
the  meal  was  over  they  were  chatting  away  with  the 
familiarity  of  old  friends. 

Al  first,  Mademoiselle  Vivia  was  inclined  to  treat  I^Ias- 
ter  Tom  with  dignified  reserve,  but  his  animated  vohi- 
bility  and  determination  to  be  on  cordial  terms  were  not 
to  be  resisted,  and  they  rose  from  the  table  the  best  friends 
in  the  world. 

To  visit  Cliftonlea  without  going  to  Castle  Cliffe  was 
like  visiting  Rome  without  going  to  St.  Peter's.  All  sight- 
severs  went  there,  and  were  enchanted,  but  few  of  them 
evc"  had  so  fluent  and  voluble  a  guide  as  its  heiress  had 
now.  From  gallery  to  gallery,  throiigh  beautiful  saloons 
and  supper-rooms,  through  blooming  conservatories, 
magnificent  suites  of  drawing-rooms,  oak  parlors  and 
libraries,   Tom  enthusiastically  strode,  gesticulating,  de- 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


7« 


scribing — and  inventing  sometimes,  when  his  memory 
fell  short  of  facts — in  a  way  that  equally  excited  the  sur- 
prise and  admiration  of  his  small  auditor. 

The  central,  or  main  part  of  the  castle,  according  to 
Tom,  was  as  old  as  the  days  of  the  Fifth  Henry — as  in- 
deed its  very  ancient  style  of  architecture,  and  an  inscrip- 
tion in  antique  French  on  an  old  mantelpiece,  proved. 
To  the  right  and  left  there  were  two  octagonal  towers  ; 
one  called  the  Queen's  Tower,  built  in  the  time  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  and  so  named  because  that  illustrious  lady 
herself  had  once  honored  it  with  a  week's  visit ;  the  other, 
called  the  Agnes  Tower,  had  been  erected  in  the  same 
reign  at  a  later  date,  and  was  named  after  Lady  Agnes 
Cliffe,  the  bride  of  its  then  proprietor.  Tom  had  wonder- 
ful stories  to  tell  about  these  old  places  ;  but  the  great 
point  of  attraction  was  the  picture-gallery,  an  immense 
hall  lighted  with  beautiful  oriel  windows  of  stained  glass, 
and  along  whose  walls  hung  the  pictured  faces  of  all  the 
Cliffes,  who  had  reigned  there  from  time  immemorial. 
Gallant  knights,  in  wigs,  and  swords,  and  doublets  ; 
courtly  dames  in  diamond  stomachers,  anc'  head-dresses 
three  feet  high,  looked  down  with  their  dead  eyes  on  the 
last  of  their  ancient  race— the  little  girl  in  the  white  dress 
and  blue  ribbons,  who  held  her  breath  with  awe,  and  felt 
as  if  she  heard  the  ghostly  rustling  of  their  garments 
against  the  oak  walls. 

Master  Tom,  who  had  no  Cliffe  blood  in  his  veins,  and 
no  bump  of  veneration  on  his  head,  ran  on  with  an  easy 
fluency  that  would  have  made  his  fortune  as  a  stump- 
lecturer. 

"  That  horrid  old  fright  up  there,  in  the  bag- wig  and 
knee-breeches,  is  Sir  IVIarmaduke  Cliffe,  who  built  the 
two  towers  in  the  days  of  Queen  Elizabeth  ;  and  that 
sour-looking  dame,  with  a  rufflr^  sticking  out  five  feet, 
was  Lady  Agnes  Neville,  his  wife.  That  there  is  Sir 
Lionel,  who  was  master  here  in  the  days  of  the  Merry 
Monarch — the  handsomest  Cliffe  among  tlicm,  and  every- 
body says  I'm  his  born  image.  That  good-looking  nun 
over  there,  with  the  crucifix  in  her  hand  and  the  whites 
of  her  eyes  upturned,  was  the  lady  abbess,  once  of  the 
ruined  convent  behind  here,  and  got  her  brains  knocked 
out  by  that  abominable  scamp,  Thomas  Cromwell. 
There's  the  present  Lady  Agnes  in  white  satin  and  pearls 


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WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


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—her  bridal  dress,   I  believe.     And  there — do  you  know 
who  that  is  ?  " 

A  young  man,  looking  like  a  prince,  in  the  uniform  of 
an  officer  of  dragoons,  with  the  blue  eyes,  golden  hair, 
and  laughing  face,  she  knew  by  heart ;  and  a  flush  of 
light  rose  to  her  face  as  she  looked. 

"It  is  my  papa  ! — my  own  splendid  papa  !  And  there 
isn't  one  among  them  all  who  looks  half  as  much  like  a 
king  as  he  !  " 

"That's  true  enough;  and  as  he  is  the  best,  so  he  is 
the  last.  I  suppose  they  will  be  hanging  yours  up  near 
it  very  soon." 

"But  my  mamma'c,  where  is  that.'*  Is  not  her  picture 
here  as  well  as  the  rest  ? " 

Tom  looked  at  her,  and  suppressed  a  whistle. 

"  Your  mamma's  ?  Oh,  I  never  saw  her.  I  don't  know 
anything  about  her.    Her  picture  is  not  here,  at  all  events  !  " 

"She  is  dead  !  "  said  the  child,  in  her  manner  of  grave 
simplicity.      "  I  never  saw  my  dear  mamma  I  " 

"  Well,  if  she  is  dead,  I  suppose  she  can't  have  her  por- 
trait taken  very  easily,  and  that  accounts  !  And  now,  as 
I'm  tired  of  going  from  one  room  to  another,  suppose  we 
go  out  and  have  a  look  at  the  old  convent  I  promised  to 
show  you,.     What  do  you  think  of  the  house  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  very  great  place." 

"And  the  Cliffes  have  been  very  great  people  in  their 
time,  too ;  and  are  yet,  for  that  matter ;  best  blood  in 
Sussex,  not  to  say  in  all  England." 

"Are  you  aCliffe?" 

"No — more's  the  pity  ?     I  am  nothing  but  a  Shirley  !  " 

"  Is  that  girl  ?  " 

"What  girl.?" 

"Mademoiselle  Marguerite.  We  three  are  cousins,  I 
know,  but  I  can't  quite  understand  it." 

"Well,  look  here,  then,  and  I'll  demonstrate  it  so  that 
even  your  capacity  can  grapple  with  the  subject.  Once 
upon  a  time,  there  were  three  brothers  by  the  name  of 
Shirley  ;  the  oldest  married  Lady  Agnes  Cliffe,  and  he  is 
dead ;  the  second  married  my  mother,  and  they're  both 
dead  ;  the  third  married  Mademoiselle  Marguerite's 
mother,  and  they're  both  dead,  too — dying  was  a  bad 
habit  the  Shirleys  had.  Don't  you  see  ? — it's  as  clear  as 
mud." 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


73 


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"I  see.     And  that  is  why  you  both  Hve  here?  " 

"That's  why.  And  Mag  would  have  had  this  place, 
only  you  turned  up — bad  job  for  her,  you  see  !  Sir  Ro- 
land offered  to  take  me  ;  but  as  I  had  some  claim  on  Lady 
Agnes,  and  none  at  all  on  him,  she  wouldn't  hear  of  such 
a  thing  at  any  price." 

"Sir  Roland  is  the  stout  gentleman  who  told  me  to  call 
him  uncle,  then,  and — grandmamma's  brother.  Has  he 
no  wife  }  " 

"Not  now  ;  she's  defunct.  He  has  a  step-son  up  at 
Oxford,  Leicester  Shiiloy — Cliffe,  they  call  him,  and  just 
the  kind  of  fellow  you  would  like,  I  know.  Perhaps  he 
will  marry  you  some  day  when  he  comes  home  ;  it  would 
be  just  the  thing  for  him  !  " 

"Marry  me!  He  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said 
Miss  Vivia,  with  some  dignity,  and  a  good  deal  of  asper- 
ity. "I  shall  marry  nobody  but  Claude.  I  wouldn't 
have  anybody  else  for  the  world." 

"  Who  is  Claude  ?  " 

"  Why,  just  Claude — nothing  else  ;  but  he  will  be  Mar- 
quis de  St.  Hilary  some  day,  and  I  will  be  Madame  la 
Marquise.  He  is  a  great  deal  handsomer  than  you,  and 
I  like  him  ever  so  much  better  !  " 

"1  don't  believe  it !  I'm  positive  you  like  me  better 
than  anybody  else  in  the  world  ;  or  at  least  you  will  when 
we  come  to  be  a  little  better  acquainted.  Almost  every 
little  girl  falls  in  love  the  moment  she  claps  her  eyes  on 
me  !  " 

Genevieve  lifted  her  blue  eyes,  flashing  with  mingled 
astonishment  and  indignation  ;  but  Tom's  face  was  per- 
fectly dismal  in  its  seriousness,  and  he  bore  her  angry 
regards  without  wincing. 

"You  say  the  thing  that  is  not  true,  Monsieur  Tom. 
I  shall  never  love  you  as  long  as  I  live  ! " 

"Then  all  I  have  to  say  is,  that  you  ought  to  be  pitied 
for  your  want  of  taste.  But  it  is  just  as  well ;  for,  in  case 
you  did  love  me,  it  would  only  be  an  affair  of  a  broken 
heart,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  ;  for  I  wouldn't  marry 
you  if  you  were  the  heiress  of  Castle  Cliffe  ten  times  over. 
I  know  a  girl — I  saw  her  dancing  on  the  tight-rope  at  the 
races  the  other  day — v.ho  is  a  thousand  times  prettier 
than  you,  and  whom  I  intend  making  Mrs.  S.  as  soon  as 
I  get  able  to  support  her." 


'■    A. 


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74 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


Genevieve  looked  horrified.  In  her  peculiar  simplicity, 
she  took  every  word  for  gospel. 

"A  tight-rope  dancer!  Oh,  Tom!  what  will  grand- 
mamma say?  " 

"I  don't  care  what  she  says,"  said  Tom,  desperately, 
thrusting  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  "  A  tight-rope  dancer 
is  as  good  as  anybody  else  ;  and  I  won't  be  the  first  of 
the  family,  either,  who  has  tried  that  do-,  igi,  " 

The  last  vis  addod  in  a  'ow  vMcr,  l^jt  !he  little  girl 
heard  it,  and  there  was  a  r^eicepii'io  drawing  up  of  the 
small  figure,  arid  an  unmistakable  «.  rocii:o:^  of  the  proud 
little  head. 

"  I  don't  see  how  any  Cliffe  could  make  ;  ach.  a  mesal- 
liance, and  I  don't  believe  any  of  them  ever  did  it.  I 
should  think  you  would  be  ashamed  to  speak  of  such  a 
thing,  Cousin  Tom." 

"  You  despise  ballet-dancers,  then  ?" 

"Of  course." 

**  And  actresses,  also?" 

"Why,  certainly.  It  is  all  the  same.  Claude  often 
said  he  would  die  before  he  would  make  a  low  marriage  ; 
and  so  would  I." 

Tom  thrust  his  hands  deeper  in  his  trousers  pockets, 
rolled  up  his  eyes  to  the  firmament,  and  gave  vent  to  his 
feelings  in  a  prolonged  whistle. 

'"  And  this  little  princess,  with  her  chin  up  and  her  eyes 
flashing,  is  the  daughter  of  a  nameless  French  actress  !  " 
was  his  thought. 

Then,  aloud  : 

"You  seem  to  have  very  distinct  ideas  on  the  subject 
of  matrimony,  Miss  Victoria.  Was  it  in  your  convent 
you  learned  them  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not.  But  Claude,  and  I,  and  Ignacia  have 
talked  of  it  a  thousand  times  in  the  holidays.  And, 
Cousin  Tom,  if  you  marry  your  dancing-girl,  how  will 
you  live  ?     You  are  not  rich  !  " 

"No  ;  you  might  swear  that,  without  fear  of  perjury. 
But  my  wife  and  I  intend  to  set  up  a  cigar-shop,  and  get 
our  rich  relations  to  patronize  us.  There,  don't  look  so 
disgusted,  but  look  at  the  ruins." 

While  talking,  they  had  been  walking  along  a  thickly 
wooded  avenue,  and,  as  Tom  spoke,  they  came  upon  a 
semicircular  space  of  greensward,  with  the  ruins  of  an  old 


get 
;  so 


:kly 
n  a 
old 


IVEDDKD  FOR  PIQUE. 


75 


convent  in  the  center.  Nothing  nov  remained  but  an 
immense  st'>ne  cross,  bearin-j^  a  long  inscriptit)n  in  Latin, 
and  the  re-  ins  of  on  3  super!*  window  in  the  only  un- 
ruined  wall.  Tlie  whole  piace  was  overru'"  with  ivy  and 
tangled  jun'^cr,  even  ihe  broad  stone  ste^i..  that  led  up  to 
what  once  'lad  be ^n  the  grand  altar. 

''Look;.,  those  stains,"  said  Tom,  pointing  to  some 
rla'k  sj-ots  on  the  uppe"  ?}.•  p.  "They  say  that's  blood. 
Lady  ivlith  Cliffe  was  the  last  abbess  here,  and  she  was 
murdered  on  those  step.=?,  in  the  days  of  Thomas  Crom- 
well, for  refusing  to  take  the  Oath  of  Supremacy.  The 
sunsliine  and  storm  of  hundreds  of  years  have  been  un- 
able to  remove  the  traces  of  the  crime.  And  the  town- 
folk  say  a  tall  woman,  all  in  black  and  white,  walks  here 
on  moonlight  nights.  As  I  have  never  had  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  the  ghost,  I  cannot  vouch  for  that  part  of  the 
story,  but  I  can  show  you  her  grave.  They  buried  her 
down  here,  with  a  stake  through  her  h^art;  and  the 
place  is  called  the  '  Nun's  Grave  '  from  that  day  to  this." 

Genevit  /e  reverently  contemplated  the  stained  stones. 

"  I  am  glad  I  am  a  Cliffe  !  "  she  said,  as  she  arose  and 
followed  him  down  the  paved  aisle. 

The  grave  was  not  far  distant.  They  entered  a  narrow 
path,  with  dismal  yew  and  gloomy  elm  interlacing  their 
branches  overhead,  shutting  out  the  summer  sunshine — 
a  spot  as  dark  and  lonely  as  the  heart  of  a  primeval 
forest.  And  at  the  foot  of  a  patriarchal  dryad  of  yew  was 
a  long  mound,  with  a  black  marble  slab  at  the  head, 
without  name,  or  date,  or  inscription. 

"  Horrid  dismal  old  place  ! — isn't  it }  "  said  Tom,  fling- 
ing himself  on  the  grass.  "But  dismal  or  not,  I  am 
about  done  up,  and  intend  to  rest  here.  Why,  what  is 
the  matter?" 

For  Genevieve,  looking  down  at  the  grass,  had  sud- 
denly turned  of  a  ghostly  whiteness,  and  sunk  down  in  a 
violent  tremor,  and  faintness  across  the  mound.  Tom 
sprang  up  in  dire  alarm.. 

"  Vivia,  Vivia  !     What  in  the  world  is  this  ?  ' 

She  did  not  speak. 

He  lifted  her  up,  and  she  clung  with  a  nameless  trem- 
bling terror  to  his  arm,  her  very  lips  blanched  to  the 
whiteness  of  death. 

"Vivia,  what  under  heaven  is  this  ?  " 


hi 
% 

'1 

'i 

I' 


I 


>y 


76 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


!  I 


The  pale  lips  parted. 

"  Nothing  !"  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  could  scarcelj/ 
be  heard.     "  Let  us  go  away  from  this." 

He  drew  her  arm  within  his,  and  led  her  away,  mysti- 
fied beyond  expression.  But,  in  the  terrible  after-days, 
when  the  "Nun's  Grave"  had  more  of  horror  for  him  than 
Hades  itself,  he  had  reason  to  remember  Vivia's  first  visit 
there. 


i  \k 


w 


■■  I 

■I 


i  Hi 


'I   !  i.\ 

1      I  A" 


m 


'  .1 

life 

I     It. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


VICTORIA       REGIA. 


Before  the  end  of  the  first  week,  the  little  heiress  was 
thorou!.i;-hly  domesticated  at  Castle  Cliffe.  Everybody 
liked  her,  from  Lady  Agnes  down  to  the  kitchen  maids, 
who  sometimes  had  the  honor  of  dropping  her  a  courtesy, 
and  receiving  a  gracious  little  smile  in  return.  Lady 
Agnes  had  keen  eyes,  and  reading  her  like  a  printed  book, 
saw  that  the  little  girl  was  aristocratic  to  the  core  of  her 
heart.  If  she  wept,  as  she  once  or  twice  found  occasion 
to  do,  it  was  like  a  little  lady — noiselessly,  with  her  hand- 
kerchief to  her  eyes,  and  her  face  buried  in  her  arm.  If 
she  laughed,  it  was  careless,  low,  and  musical,  and  with 
an  air  of  despising  laughter  all  the  time.  She  never 
romped ;  she  never  screamed  ;  she  was  never  rude. 
Heaven  forbid  !  The  blue  blood  of  the  Cliffes  certainly 
flowed  with  proud  propriety  through  those  delicate  veins. 

The  girl  of  twelve,  too,  understood  it  all,  as  the  duck- 
ling understands  swimming,  by  intuition,  and  was  as 
radically  and  unaffectedly  haughty  in  her  way  as  Lady 
Agnes  in  hers.  She  was  proud  of  the  Cliffes,  and  of  their 
long  pedigree  ;  proud  of  their  splendid  house  and  its 
splendid  surroundings  ;  proud  of  her  stately  grandmother  ; 
and  proudest  of  all  of  her  handsome  papa. 

"The  child  is  well  named,"  said  Lady  Agnes,  with 
a  conscious  smile.  "She  is  Victoria — exactly  like  her 
namesake,  that  odd,  wild,  beautiful  flower,  the  Victoria 
Regia." 

Everybody  in  Cliftonlea  was  wild  to  see  the  heiress ; 


I!  if': 


ion 
id. 
If 

'ith 
;ver 


ms, 
ck- 

as 
ady 
leir 

iis 
ler ; 

'ith 
her 
oria 

jss ; 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


11 


the  return  of  her  father  had  hcen  nothing  to  Wns/urore  ; 
so  the  white  muslin  and  bUie  ribbons  were  discarded  tor 
b.iUiant  silks  and  noddini^  plumes,  and  Lady  Agnes  and 
Miss  Shirley  drove  through  the  town  in  a  grand  barouche, 
half  buried  among  amber-velvet  cushions,  and  looking 
like  a  full-blown  queen  and  a  princess  in  the  bud.  Cer- 
tainly, it  was  a  bewildering  change  for  the  little  gray- 
robed  jnipil  of  the  French  convent. 

It  was  a  sultry  September  afternoon,  with  a  high  wind, 
a  brassy  sun,  and  crimson  clouds  in  a  dull,  leaden  sky — 
a  Saturday  afternoon,  and  a  half-holiday  with  Tom  Shir- 
ley, who  stood  before  the  portico  of  the  hall-door,  holding 
the  bridles  of  two  ponies — one  his  own,  the  other  Cousin 
Victoria's.  This  latter  was  a  perfect  miracle  of  Arabian 
beauty,  ^luowy  white,  slender-limbed,  arch-necked,  fiery- 
eyed,  full  of  spirit,  yet  gentle  as  a  lamb  to  a  master-hand. 
It  was  a  present  from  Sir  Roland  to  the  heiress  of  Castle 
Cliffe,  and  had  been  christened  by  that  little  young  lady 
"Claude" — a  title  which  Tom  indignantly  repudiated  for 
its  former  one  of  "Leicester." 

The  girl  and  the  boy  were  bound  for  a  gallop  to  Sir 
Rolands  home,  Cliffewood,  a  distance  of  some  seven 
miles  ;  and  while  Tom  stood  holding  the  impatient  ponies, 
the  massive  hall-  door  was  thrown  open  by  the  obsequious 
porter,  and  the  heiress  herself  tripped  out. 

Tom  had  very  gallantly  told  her  once  that  the  rope- 
dancer  was  a  thousand  times  prettier  than  she;  but 
looking  at  her  now,  as  she  stood  for  one  moment  on  the 
topmost  step,  he  cried  inwardly,  '' Peccavi f"  and  re- 
pented. Certainly  nothing  could  have  been  lovelier — the 
light,  slender  figure  in  an  exquisitely  fitting  habit  of  blue  ; 
yellow  gauntlets  on  the  fairy  hands,  one  of  which  lightly 
lifted  her  flowing  skirt,  and  the  other  poising  the  most 
exquisite  of  riding-whips  ;  the  fiery  lances  of  sunshine 
glancing  through  the  sunny  curls  flowing  to  the  waist, 
the  small  black  riding-hat  and  waving  plume  tied  with 
azure  ribbons  ;  the  sunlight  flashing  in  her  bright  blue 
eyes,  and  kissing  the  rose-tint  on  her  pearly  cheeks. 

Yes,  Victoria  Shirley  was  pretty — a  very  different  look- 
ing girl  from  the  pale,  dim,  colorless  Genevieve  who  had 
arrived  a  little  over  a  week  before.  And,  as  she  came 
tripping  down  the  steps,  planting  one  dainty  foot  in  Tom's 
palm,   and  springing    easily  into   her  saddle,   his   boy's 


t  1 ' 


li: 
1! 


78 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


Hi- 


:'r 


! 


i  ■  ■! 


heart  pave  a  quick  bound,  and  his  pulses  an  electric  thrill. 
He  leaped  on  his  own  horse  ;  the  girl  smilingly  kissed  the 
tips  of  her  yellow  gauntlets  to  Lady  Agnes  in  her  chamber 
window,  and  they  dashed  away  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind, 
her  curls  waving  behind  like  a  golden  banner. 

Vivia  rode  well — it  was  an  accomplishment  she  had 
learned  in  France  ;  the  immense  iron  gates  under  the  lofly 
stone  arch  split  open  at  their  approach,  and  away  they 
dashed  through  Cliftonlea.  All  the  town  flew  to  the  doors 
and  windows  and  gazed  in  profound  admiration  and  envy 
after  the  twain  as  they  flew  by — the  bold,  dark-eyed,  dark- 
haired,  manly  boy,  and  the  delicate  fairy,  with  the  blue 
eyes  and  golden  hnir,  beside  him.  The  high  wind 
deepened  the  roses  and  brightened  the  light  in  Vivia's 
eyes,  until  she  was  glowing  like  a  second  Aurora,  when 
they  leaped  off  their  horses  at  the  villa's  gates.  This 
villa  was  a  pretty  place — a  very  pretty  place,  but  pain- 
fully new  ;  for  which  reason  Vivia  did  not  like  it  at  all. 
The  grounds  were  spacious  and  beautifully  laid  out  ;  the 
villa  was  a  gem  of  gothic  architecture,  but  it  had  been 
built  by  Sir  Roland  himself,  and  nobody  ever  thought  of 
coming  to  see  it.  Sir  Roland  did  not  care,  for  he  liked 
comfort  a  great  deal  better  than  historic  interest  and  leaky 
roofs,  and  told  Lady  Agnes,  with  a  good-natured  laugh, 
when  she  spoke  of  it  in  her  scornful  way,  that  she  might 
live  in  her  old  ruined  convent  if  she  liked,  but  he  would 
stick  to  his  commodious  villa. 

Now  he  came  down  the  grassy  lawn  to  meet  them,  and 
welcomed  them  with  cordiality  ;  for  the  new  heiress  was 
an  immense  favorite  of  his  already. 

"Aunt  Agnes  thought  it  would  do  Vic  good  to  gal' op 
over,"  said  Tom,  switching  his  boot  with  his  whip.  "  ic. 
here  we  are.  But  you  needn't  invite  us  to  stay,  for,  as  this 
is  Saturday  afternoon,  you  know  it  couldn't  be  heard  of." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Vic — a  name  which  Tom  had  adopted 
for  shortness;  "we  ought  to  go  right  back,  for  Tom  is 
going  to  show  me  something  wonderful  down  on  the 
shore.     Why,  Uncle  Roland,  what  is  this  .?  " 

They  had  entered  a  high,  cool  hall,  with  glass  doors 
thrown  open  at  each  end,  showing  a  sweeping  vista  of 
lawns,  and  terraces,  and  shrubbery,  rich  with  statues  and 
portraits  ;  and  before  one  of  these  the  speaker  had  made 
so  sudden  a  halt  that  the  two  others  stopped  also.     It 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


79 


was  a  picture  in  a  splendid  frame  of  a  little  boy  some 
eight  years  old,  with  long,  bright  curls,  much  the  same 
as  her  own,  blue  eyes,  too,  but  so  much  darker  than  hers 
that  they  seemed  almost  black  ;  the  straight,  delicate 
features  characteristic  of  the  Cliffes,  and  a  smile  like  an 
angel's.  It  was  really  a  beautiful  face — much  more  so 
than  her  own,  and  the  girl  clasped  her  hands  in  her  pecul- 
iar manner,  and  looked  at  it  in  a  perfect  ecstasy. 

"  Why,"  Tom  was  beginning,  impetuously,  "  where  did 
you — "  when  Sir  Roland,  smilingly,  caught  his  arm  and 
interposed. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Tom.  Little  boys  should  be  seen 
and  not  heard.     Well,  Vic,  do  you  know  who  that  is  ?" 

"It  looks  like — it  does  look  like,"  a  little  doubtfully, 
though,  "  my  papa. " 

"So  it  does;  the  forehead,  and  mouth,  and  hair  are 
alike  exactly.     But  it  is  not  your  papa.     Guess  again." 

"Oh,  I  can't.     I  hate  guessing.     Tell  me  who  it  is." 

"  It  is  a  portrait  of  my  step-son,  Leicester,  taken  when 
a  child,  and  the  reason  you  never  saw  it  before  is,  it  has 
been  getting  a  new  frame.  Good-looking  little  fellow, 
eh?" 

"Oh,  it  is  beautiful !     It  is  an  angel." 

Sir  Roland  and  Tom  both  laughed,  but  Tom's  was  a 
perfect  shout. 

"  Leicester  Cliffe  an  angel !  Oh,  ye  gods  !  won't  I  tell 
hjm  the  next  time  I  see  him,  and  he  the  veriest  scamp 
that  ever  strutted  !  " 

"Nothing  of  the  kind,  Vic,"  said  Sir  Roland,  as  Vic 
colored  with  mortification.  "Leicester  is  an  excellent 
fellow,  and,  when  he  comes  home,  you  and  he  will  be 
capital  friends,  I'm  sure." 

Vic  brightened  up  immediately. 

"And  when  will  he  be  home,  Uncle  Roland?  " 

"That's  uncertam — perhaps  at  Christmas." 

"Is  he  old?" 

* '  Considerably  stricken  in  years,  but  not  quite  as  old 
as  Methuselah's  cat,"  struck  in  Tom.      "He  is  eighteen." 

"  Does  he  look  like  that  now  ?  " 

"Except  that  all  those  young-lady-like  curls,  and  that 
innocent  expression,  and  those  short  jackets  are  gone, 
he  does,  and  then  he  is  as  tall  as  a  May-pole,  or  as  Tom 
Shirley.     Come  in  and  have  lunch." 


J  ■ 


i|    ' 


H 


■  U 


So 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


■f' 


1  i:! 


I.  !  r 


,.^^   ■  ! 


11 


It 

J. 


J  'I 


t 


Sir  Roland  led  the  way.  After  luncheon  the  cousins 
mounted  their  horses  and  rode  to  the  castle.  The  sun 
was  setting  in  an  oriflamme  of  crimson  and  black,  and 
the  wind  had  risen  to  a  perfect  gale,  but  Tom  insisted  on 
his  cousin  accompanying  him  to  the  shore,  nevertheless. 
'  I  won't  be  able  to  show  the  Dev — I  mean  the  Demon's 
Tower  until  next  Saturday,  unless  you  come  now,  so  be 
off,  Vic,  and  change  your  dress.  It  is  worth  going  to 
see,  I  can  tell  you." 

Vic,  nothing  loth,  flew  up  the  great  oaken  staircase  to 
'icr  own  beautiful  room,  and  soon  reappeared  in  a  gay 
silk  robe  aiid  black  velvet  basque.  As  she  joined  Tom 
in  the  avenue,  she  recoiled  in  surpiise  and  displeasure  to 
see  that  Margaret  was  with  him, 

"Don't  be  cross,  Vic,"  whispered  Tom,  giving  her  a 
coaxing  pinch.  "She  was  sitting,  moping  like  an  old 
hen  with  the  distemper,  under  the  trees,  and  I  thought  it 
would  be  only  an  act  of  Christian  politeness  to  ask  her. 
Come  on,  she  w  jn't  eat  you  ;  come  on,  Mag." 

Tom's  long  legs  measured  off  the  ground  as  if  he  were 
shod  with  seven-leagued  boots,  and  the  two  girls,  running 
breathlessly  at  his  side,  had  enough  to  do  to  keep  up  with 
him.  The  shore  was  about  a  half-mile  distant,  but  he 
knew  lots  of  short  cuts  through  the  trees,  and  before  long 
they  were  on  the  sands  and  scrambling  over  the  rocks, 
Tom  holding  Vic's  hand,  and  Margaret  making  her  way 
in  the  best  mannei  she  could,  with  now  and  then  an  en- 
couragmg  word  from  him.  The  sky  looked  dark  and 
menacing,  the  wind  raged  over  the  heaving  sea,  and  the 
surf  washed  the  rocks  "ar  out  in  great  billows  of  foam. 

"  Look  there,'' said  Tom,  pointing  to  something  that 
really  looked  like  a  huge  mass  of  stone  'ower.  "That's 
the  Demon's  Tower,  and  they  call  tha'  the  Storm  Bar 
beyond  it.  We  can  walk  to  it  now  been  use  the  tide  is 
low,  but  any  one  caught  there  at  high  water  would  be 
drowned  for  certain,  unless  he  was  an  uncommon  swim- 
mer. There  s  no  danger  now,  though,  £.s  the  tide's  very 
low.     So  make  haste  and  come  along." 

But  over  the  slippe  y  rocks  and  slimy  sea-weed  Vic 
could  not  "come  along"  at  all.  Seeing  which,  Tom 
lifted  her  in  his  arms,  with  as  much  ceremony  and  difli- 
culty  as  if  she  had  been  a  kitten  ;  and  calling  to  IMargaret 
to  mind  her  eye,  and  not  break  her  neck,  bounded  from 


!t      !: 


r    It 


-kl. 


/V 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


Si 


jag  to  jag  with  as  much  ease  as  a  goat.     Margaret,  slip- 


d  Vic 
Tom 
difli- 

rgaret 
from 


I 


ping 


and  tailing,  and  risnig  again,  followed  patiently  on, 
and  in  fifteen  minutes  they  were  in  the  cavern,  and  Vic 
was  standing,  laughing  and  breathless,  on  her  own  feet 
again. 

It  was  in  reality  a  tower  without  a  top  ;  for  some 
twenty  feet  above  them  they  could  see  the  dull,  leaden 
sky,  and  the  sides  were  as  steep,  and  perpendicular,  and 
unclimbable  as  the  walls  of  a  house.  The  cavern  was 
sufficiently  spacious,  and  opposite  the  low,  natural  arch- 
way by  which  they  had  entered,  were  half  a  dozen  rough 
steps  cut  in  the  rocks,  and  above  them  was  a  kind  of  a 
seat  made  by  a  projecting  stone.  The  place  was  filled 
wi.h  hollow,  weird  sounds,  something  between  the  sound 
we  hear  in  sea-shells  and  the  mournful  sighing  of  an 
^Eolian  harp,  and  the  effect  altogether  was  unspeakably 
wild  and  melancholy. 

Again  Vic  clasped  her  hands,  this  time  in  mingled  awe 
and  delight. 

"What  a  place  !  How  the  sea  and  wind  roar  among 
the  rocks  !     I  could  stay  here  forever  !  " 

"■  i  have  often  been  here  for  hours  on  a  stretch  with 
Leicester  Cliffe,"  said  Tom.  "We  cut  those  steps  in  the 
rock  ;  and,  when  we  were  little  shavers,  he  used  to  play 
Robinson  Crusoe,  and  I,  Man  Friday.  We  named  it  Rob- 
inson Crusoe's  Castle  ;  but  that  was  too  long  for  every 
day  ;  so  the  people  in  Lower  Cliffe — the  fishing  village 
over  there — called  it  the  Devil's  Tower.  Vic,  sing  a  song, 
and  hear  how  your  voice  will  echo  round  these  stone 
walls." 

"But,"  said  Margaret,  "  I  don't  think  it's  safe  to  stay 
here,  Tom.  You  know,  when  the  tide  rises  it  fills  this 
place  nearly  to  the  top,  and  would  drown  us  all !  " 

"  Don't  be  a  goose,  Maggie;  there's  no  danger,  I  tell 
you  !  Vic,  get  up  in  Robinson  Crusoe's  seat,  and  I'll  be 
Man  Friday  again,  and  lie  here  at  your  feet." 

Vic  got  up  the  steps,  and  seated  herself  upoi.  the  stone 
ledge;  Tom  flung  himself  on  the  stone  floor,  and  Mar- 
garet sat  down  on  a  pile  of  dry  sea-weed  in  the  corner. 
Then  Vic  sang  some  wild  Venetian  barcarole,  that  echoed 
and  re-echoed,  and  rang  out  on  the  wind,  in  a  way  that 
equally  amazed  and  delighted  her.  Again  and  again  she 
sang,  fascinated  by  the  wild  and  beautiful  echo,  and  Tom 


'i 


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f  I, , 

i 

f 


!  ,1 


m : 


i  I 


p 


'  i !  '■ 


82 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


joined  in  loud  choruses  of  his  own,  and  Margaret  listened, 
secminj^ly  quite  as  much  delighted  as  they,  until,  sud- 
denly, in  the  midst  of  the  loudest  strain,  she  sprang  to 
her  feet  with  a  sharp  cry. 

"  Tom  !  Tom  !   the  tide  is  upon  us  !  " 

Instantly  Tom  was  on  his  feet,  as  if  he  were  made  from 
head  to  heel  of  spring-steel,  and  out  of  the  black  arch. 
For  nearly  two  yards,  the  space  below  the  archway  was 
clear  of  the  surf  ;  but,  owing  to  a  peculiar  curve  in  the 
shore,  the  tower  had  become  an  island,  and  was  almost 
encircled  by  the  foaming  waves.  The  dull  day  was 
darkening,  too ;  the  fierce  bhist  dashed  the  spray  in  his 
eyes,  and  in  one  frantic  glance  he  saw  that  escape  was 
impossible. 

He  could  not  swim  to  the  shore  in  that  surf;  neither  he 
nor  they  could  climb  up  the  steep  sides  of  the  cavern,  and 
they  all  must  drown  where  they  were.  Not  for  himself  did 
he  care — brave  Tom  never  thought  of  himself  in  that 
moment,  nor  even  of  Margaret — only  of  Vic.  In  an  in- 
stant he  was  back  again,  and  kneeling  at  her  feet  on  the 
stone  floor. 

"  I  promised  to  protect  you  !  '*  he  cried  out,  "  and  see 
how  I  have  kept  my  word  !  ' 

"  Tom,  is  it  true  .?     Can  we  not  escape  ?  " 

"No;  'he  sea  is  around  us  on  every  hand,  and  in 
twenty  maiutes  will  be  over  that  arch  and  over  our  heads  ! 
Oh,  I  wis)i  I  had  been  struck  dead  before  I  brought  you 
hero. " 

' '  And  can  we  do  nothing  ?  "  said  Vic,  clasping^  her 
hands — always  her  impulse.  "  If  we  could  only  climb  to 
the  top." 

Again  Tom  bounded  to  his  feet. 

"I  will  try  !  There  may  be  a  rope  there,  and  it  is  a 
chance,  after  all !  " 

In  a  twinkling  he  was  at  the  top  of  Robinson's  seat  and 
clutching  frantically  at  invisible  fragments  of  rock,  to  help 
him  up  the  steep  ascent.  But  in  vain  ;  worse  than  in 
vain  !  Neither  sailor  nor  monkey  could  have  climbed  up 
there  :  and,  with  a  sharp  cry,  he  missed  his  hold,  and 
was  hurled  back,  stunned  and  senseless,  to  the  floor. 

The  salt  spray  came  dashing  in  their  faces  as  they  knelt 
beside  him.  Margaret  ohrieked,  and  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands,  and   cowered  down;   and  **0h,   holy 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


83 


mother,  protect  us  !  "  murmured  the  pale  lips  of  th    "f^nch 
girl. 
And  still  the  waters  rose  ! 


CHAPTER  X. 


BARBARA. 


The  Cliftonlea  races  were  over  and  well  over,  but  at 
least  one-third  of  the  pleasure-seekers  went  home  disap- 
pointed. The  races  had  been  successful ;  the  weather 
propitious  ;  but  one  great  point  of  attraction  had  myste- 
riously disappeared — after  the  first  day,  the  infant  Venus 
vanished  and  was  seen  no  more.  The  mob  had  gone 
wild  about  her,  and  had  besieged  the  theater  clamorously 
next  day  ;  but  when  another  and  very  clumsy  Venus  was 
substituted,  and  the  original  divinity  was  not  to  be  found, 
the  manager  nearly  had  his  theater  pulled  down  about  his 
ears,  in  their  angry  disappointment.  None  could  tell 
what  had  become  of  her,  except,  perhaps,  Mr.  Sweet — 
which  prudent  gentleman  enchanted  the  race-ground  no 
longer  with  his  presence,  but  devoted  himself  exclusively 
to  a  little  business  of  his  own. 

It  was  a  sweltering  August  evening.  The  sun,  that 
had  throbbed  and  blazed  all  day  like  a  great  heart  of  fire 
in  a  cloudless  sky,  was  going  slowly  down  behind  the 
Sussex  hills,  but  a  few  vagrant  wandering  sunbeams 
lingered  still  on  the  open  window,  and  along  the  carpet- 
less  floor,  in  an  upper  room  in  the  Cliffe  Arms. 

It  was  a  small  room,  with  an  attic  roof — stifling  hot 
just  now,  and  filled  with  reeking  fumes  of  tobacco  ;  for 
Mr.  Peter  Black  sat  near  the  empty  fireplace,  smoking 
like  a  volcano.  There  were  two  ladies  in  the  room  ;  but, 
despite  their  presence  and  the  suffocating  atmosphere, 
Mr.  Black  kept  his  hat  on,  for  the  wearing  of  which  article 
of  dress  he  partly  atoned  by  being  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  and 
very  much  out  at  the  elbows  at  that. 

One  of  these  ladies,  rather  stricken  in  years,  exceedingly 
crooked,  exceedingly   yellow,  and  with  an  exceedingly 


t  if 

i 


84 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


W 


'  ( 


I; 


1 1' 


\- 


It^^i 


t'j 


i 


sharp  and  vicious  expression  generally,  sat  on  a  low  stool 
opposite  him  ;  her  skinny  elbows  on  her  knees,  her 
skinny  chin  in  her  hands,  and  her  small,  rat-like  eyes 
transfixing  him  with  an  unwinking  stare. 

The  second  lady — a  youthful  angel  arrayed  in  faded 
gauze,  ornamented  with  tawdry  ribbons  and  tarnished 
tinsel — stood  by  the  open  win  'ow,  trying  to  catch  the 
slightest  breeze  ;  but  no  breeze  stirred  the  stagnant  air  of 
the  sweltering  August  afternoon.  It  was  the  Infant 
Venus,  of  course — looking  like  anything  just  now,  how- 
ever, but  a  Venus,  in  her  shabby  dress,  her  uncombed  and 
tangled  profusion  or  hair,  and  the  scowl,  the  unmistak- 
able scowl,  that  darkened  the  pretty  face. 

There  never  was  greater  nonsense  than  that  trite  old 
adage  of  "beauty  unadorned  being  adorned  the  most," 
Beauty  in  satin  and  diamonds  is  infinitely  more  beautiful 
than  the  same  in  liuscy-wolsey,  and  the  caterpillar,  with 
sulky  face  and  frowzed  hair,  looking  out  of  the  window, 
was  no  more  like  the  golden  butterfly,  wreathed  and 
smiling  on  the  tightrope,  than  a  real  caterpillar  is  like  a 
real  butterfly.  In  fact,  none  of  the  three  appeared  to  be 
in  the  best  of  humor  ;  the  man  looked  dogged  and  scowl- 
ing ;  the  old  woman,  fierce  and  \vrathful,  and  the  girl, 
gloomy  and  sullen.  They  had  been  in  exactly  the  same 
position  for  at  least  two  hours,  without  speaking,  when 
the  girl  suddenly  turned  round  from  the  window,  with 
flashing  eyes  and  fiery  face. 

* '  Father,  I  want  to  know  how  long  we  are  to  be  kept 
roasted  alive  in  this  place  ?  If  you  don't  let  me  out,  I 
will  jump  out  of  the  window  to-night,  though  I  break  my 
neck  for  it  !  " 

"Do,  and  be ,"  growled  Mr.  Black,  surlily,  with- 
out looking  up. 

' '  What  have  we  come  here  for  at  all }  Why  have  we 
left  the  theater  ?  " 

"Plnd  out  !"  said  Mr.  Black,  laconically. 

The  girl's  eyes  flamed,  and  her  hands  clenched,  but  the 
old  woman  interposed, 

"  Barbara,  yo;.  ^'•e  p  fool  !  and  fools  ask  more  questions 
in  a  minute  than  a  ^vis^;  m  in  can  answer  in  a  day.  We 
have  come  here  for  your  good,  and — there's  a  knock,  open 
the  door. " 

"It's  that  vcUov   old  ogre  cgain,' muttered  Barbara, 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


8S 


:  we 


the 


going  to  the  door.  "I  know  he's  at  the  bottom  of  all 
this,  and  I  should  like  to  scratch  his  eyes  out — I 
should  ! " 

She  unlocked  the  door  as  she  uttered  the  gentle  wi  h  ; 
and  the  yellow  old  ogre,  in  the  person  ot  the  ever-smiling 
Mr.  Sweet,  stepped  in.  Certainly  h(^  was  smiling  just 
now — quite  radiantly,  in  fact  ;  and  his  waistcoat,  and 
whiskers,  and  hair,  and  profusion  of  jewelry  seemed  to 
scintilate  sparks  of  sunshine,  and  smile    too. 

"And  how  does  my  charming  little  Venus  find  herself 
this  warm  evening.?  Blooming  as  a  rosebud,  I  hope.?" 
he  began,  chuckling  her  under  the  chin.  ''And  the  dear 
old  lady  quite  well  and  cheerful,  I  trust.?  And  you,  my 
dear  old  boy,  always  smoking  and  enjoying  yourself  after 
your  own  fashion.      How  do  you  do,  all.?  " 

By  the  way  of  answer,  the  charming  little  Venus 
wrenched  herself  angrily  from  his  grasp  ;  the  dear  old 
lady  gave  him  a  malignant  glance  out  of  her  v.-eird  eyes, 
and  the  dear  old  boy  smoked  on  with  a  steady  scowl,  and 
never  looked  up. 

"All  silent  !  "  said  Mr.  Sweet,  drawing  up  a  chair,  and 
looking  silently  round,  "Why,  that's  odd,  too?  Bar- 
bara, my  dear,  will  you  tell  me  what  is  the  matter .?  " 

Barbara  faced  round  from  the  window  with  rather  dis- 
composing suddenness,  not  to  say  fierceness 

"The  matter  is,  Mr.  Sweet,  that  I'm  about  tired  of 
being  cooped  up  in  this  hot  hole  ;  and  if  I  don't  get  out 
by  fair  means,  I  will  by  foul,  and  that  before  long.  What 
have  you  brought  us  hero  for?  You  needn't  4.eny  it,  I 
know  you  have  brought  us  here." 

' '  Quite  right,  Miss  Barbara.      /<  Jfm  \  !  " 

"Then  I  wish  you  had  just  mmni^/f^  ^//v/' own  business, 
and  let  us  alone.  Come,  let  me  out,  or  /  /ow  f  shall 
jump  out  of  the  vv^indow,  if  I  break  ever/  i^i;fi0  jji  my 
body."  ' 

•'My  dear  Miss  Barbara,  I  admire  your  sp/if  find 
courage,  but  let  us  do  nothing  rash.  If  I  have  brc/u^yl 
you  here,  it  is  for  your  own  good,  and  you  will  thank  m6 
for  it  one  day  !  " 

"  I'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind  ;  and  you  won't  thank 
yourself  either,  if  you  don't  let  me  out  pretty  soon.  What 
do  you  mean,  sir,  by  interfering  with  us,  when  we  weren't 
interfering  with  you  ?  " 


n  f  i.U' 


w. '  <\ 


86 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


"Barbara,  hold  your  tongue!"  again  the  old  lady 
sharply  cut  in.  "  Her  tongue  is  longer  than  the  rest  of 
her  body,  Mr.  Sweet,  and  you  mustn't  mind  her.  How 
dare  you  speak  so  disrespectful  to  the  gentleman,  you 
minx  !  " 

"  You  needn^t  call  either  of  us  names,  grandmother," 
said  Barbara,  quite  as  sharply  as  the  old  lady  herself,  and 
with  a  spectral  flash  out  of  her  weird  dark  eyes.  "I 
shouldn't  think  you  and  father  would  be  such  fools  as  to 
be  ordered  about  by  an  old  lawyer,  who  had  better  be 
minding  his  own  affairs,  if  he  has  any  to  mind  !  " 

Mr.  Peter  Black,  smoking  stolidly,  still  chuckled 
grimly  under  his  unshaven  beard  at  his  little  daughter's 
large  spirit ;  and  Mr.  Sweet  looked  at  her  with  mild 
reproach. 

"Gently,  gently.  Miss  Barbara!  you  think  too  fast! 
As  you  have  guessed  it,  it  is  I  w'^io  have  brought  you 
here,  and  it  is,  I  repeat,  for  youx  good.  I  saw  you  at  the 
races,  and  liked  you — and  who  could  help  doing  that? — 
and  I  determined  you  should  not  pass  your  life  in  such 
low  drudgery  ;  for  I  swear  yon  were  born  for  a  lady,  and 
shall  be  one  !  Miss  Barbara,  you  are  a  great  deal  too 
beautiful  for  so  public  and  dangerous  a  life,  and,  I  repeat 
again,  you  shall  be  a  lady  yet  I  " 

' '  How  ?  "  said  Barbara,  a  little  mollified,  like  all  of  her 
sex,  by  the  flattery. 

"Well,  in  the  first  place,  you  shall  be  educated;  your 
father  will  have  a  more  respectable  situation  than  that  of 
ticket-taker  to  a  band  of  strolling  players  ;  and,  lastly, 
when  you  have  grown  up,  I  shall  perhaps  make  you — my 
little  wife." 

Mr.  Sweet  laughed  pleasantly,  but  Barbara  shrugged 
her  shoulders,  and  turned  away  with  infinite  contempt. 

"Oh,  thank  you  !  I  shall  never  be  a  lady  in  that  case, 
I  am  afraid !  You  may  keep  your  fine  promises.  Mr. 
Sweet,  for  those  who  like  them,  and  let  me  go  back  to 
the  theater." 

"My  dear  child,  when  you  see  the  pretty  cottage  I 
have  for  you  to  live  in,  and  the  fine  dresses  you  shall 
have,  and  all  the  friends  you  will  make,  you  will  think 
differently  of  it.  I  am  aware  this  is  not  the  most  com- 
fortable place  in  the  world,  but  I  came  up  for  the  express 
purpose  of  tellmg  you  you  are  to  leave  here  to-night 


I 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


87 


to 


e 


Yes,  my  good  friend  Black,   you  will  hold  yourself  in 
readiness  to-night  to  quit  this  for  your  future  home." 

]\Ir.  Black  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth  and  looked  up 
for  the  first  time. 

"Where's  ':hat.?  "  he  gruffly  asked. 

"  Down  in  Lower  Cliffe,  the  fishing-village  below  here, 
and  I  have  found  you  the  nicest  cottage  ever  you  saw, 
where  you  can  live  as  comfortably  as  a  king." 

' '  And  that  respectable  occupation  of  yours — perhaps 
it's  a  lawyer's  clerk  you  want  to  make  of  me.  I'm  not 
over  particular,  Lord  knows  !  but  I  don't  i,want  to  come 
to  that." 

"■  My  dear  Black,  don't  be  sarcastic,  if  you  can  help  it. 
Your  occupation  shall  be  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  re- 
spectable— a  profession  the  apostles  followed — that  of  a 
fisherman,  you  know." 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  the  apostles,'"  said  Mr. 
Black,  gruffly,  "and  I  know  less  about  being  a  fisher- 
man. * '  Why  don't  you  set  me  up  for  a  milliner,  or  a  lady's 
maid  at  once  .-*  " 

"My  dear  friend,  I  am  afraid  you  got  out  of  the  wroi*;;*' 
side  of  the  bed  this  morning,  you're  so  uncommon 
savage  ;  but  I  can  overlook  that  and  the  few  other  defects 
you  are  troubled  with,  as  people  overlook  spots  on  the 
sun.  As  to  the  fishing,  you'll  soon  learn  all  you  want  to 
know,  which  won't  be  much  ;  and  as  you  will  never  want 
a  guinea  while  I  have  one  in  my  purse,  you  need  never 
shorten  your  days  by  hard  work.  In  three  hours  from 
now — that  is,  at  nine  o'clock — I  will  be  here  with  a  con- 
veyance to  bear  you  to  your  new  home.  And  now, "said 
Mr.  Sweet,  rising,  "as  much  as  I  regret  it,  I  must  tear 
myself  away  ;  for  I  have  an  engagement  with  my  lady  at 
the  castle  in  half  an  hour.  By  the  way,  have  you  heard 
the  nev/s  of  what  happened  at  the  castle  the  other  day.?  " 

"How  should  we  hear  it?"  said  Mr.  Black,  sulkily. 
"Do  you  suppose  the  birds  of  the  air  would  fly  in  with 
news  .''  and  you  took  precious  good  care  that  none  should 
reach  us  any  other  way." 

"  True.  I  might  have  known  you  would  not  hear  it ; 
but  it  is  a  mere  trifle  after  all.  The  only  son  of  Lady  Agnes 
Shirley  has  returned  home,  after  an  absence  of  twelve 
years,  and  all  Cliftonlea  is  ringing  with  the  news.  Per- 
kaps  you  would  like  to  hear  the  story,  my  good  Judith," 


i 


f!'( 


j     i| 


II  *i 


i: 


Ml! 


88 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


said  Mr.  Sweet,  leaning  smilingly  over  his  chair,  and  fix- 
ing his  eyes  full  on  the  skinny  face  of  the  old  woman. 
"It  is  quite  a  romance,  I  assure  you.  A  little  over  thir- 
teen years  ago,  this  young  man,  Cliffe  Shirley,  made  a 
low  marriage  with  a  French  actress — very  good,  very 
pretty,  but  a  nobody,  you  know.  Actresses  are  always 
nobodies  !  " 

'•And  lawyers  are  something  worse  !  "  interrupted  Bar- 
bara, facing  indignantly  round.  "  I  would  thank  you  to 
mind  what  you  say  about  actresses,  Mr.  Sv/eet. " 

The  lawyer  bowed  in  deprecation  to  the  little  vixen. 

"Your  pardon,  Miss  Barbara.  I  hold  myseli  rebuked. 
When  my  lady  heard  the  story,  her  wrath,  I  am  told,  was 
terrific.  She  comes  of  an  old  and  fiery  race,  you  see,  and 
it  was  an  unheard-of  atrocity  to  mix  the  blood  of  the 
Cliffes  with  the  plebeian  puddle  of  a  French  actress  ;  so 
this  only  son  and  heir  was  cast  off.  Then  came  right- 
eous retribution  for  the  sin  against  society  he  had  com- 
mitti  '  •  he  artful  actress  died,  the  young  man  tied  into 
\o!uiiiUiy  exile  in  India,  to  kill  natives  and  do  penance 
for  his  sins;  .  i  after  spending  twelve  years  in  these 
pleasant  pursuits,  he  has  unexpectedly  returned  home, 
and  been  received  by  the  great  Lady  of  Castle  Cliffe  with 
u^<en  arms." 

"Oh,  grandmother,"  cicd  Barbara,  with  animation, 
"that  must  have  been  thv-  lady  and  gentleman  we  saw 
driving  past  in  the  grand  ca'^riage  yesterday.  There  were 
four  beautiful  horses,  all  shining  with  silver,  and  a  coach- 
man and  footman  in  livery,  and  the  lady  was  dressed 
5plendidly,  and  the  gentleman  was — oh,  ever  so  hand- 
some !     Don't  you  remember,  grandmother .? " 

But  grandmother,  with  her  eyes  fixed  as  if  fascinated 
on  the  cheerful  face  of  the  narrator,  her  old  hands  trem- 
bling, and  her  lips  spasmodically  tM'itching,  was  crouch- 
ing away  in  the  chimney-corner,  and  answered  never  a 
word. 

Mr.  Sweet  turned  to  the  girl,  and  took  it  upon  himself 
to  answer. 

"Right,  Miss  Barbara.  It  was  Lady  Agnes  and  Colonel 
Shirley  ;  no  one  else  in  Cliftonlea  has  such  an  equipage 
as  that ;  but  your  grandmother  will  like  to  hear  the  rest 
of  the  story. 

"There  is  a  sequel,  my  good  Judith.     The  young  sol- 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


89 


dier  and  the  pretty  actress  had  a  daughter ;  and  the  child, 
after  remaining  six  years  in  England,  was  taken  away  by 
its  father  and  placed  in  a  French  convent.  There  it  has 
"emained  ever  since  ;  and  not  long  ago  two  messengers 
*vere  sent  to  Paris  to  bring  her  home,  and  the  child  of  the 
French  actress  is  now  the  heiress  of  Castle  Cliffe  !  Miss 
Barbara,  how  would  you  like  to  be  in  her  place  ?  " 

"  You  needn't  ask.  I  would  give  half  my  life  to  be  a 
lady  for  one  day." 

Mr.  Sweet  laughed  and  turned  to  go  ;  and  old  Judith, 
crouching  into  the  chimney-corner,  shook  as  she  heard 
it  like  one  stricken  with  palsy. 

''Nevermind,  my  pretty  little  Barbara,  you  shall  be 
one  some  day,  or  I'll  not  be  a  living  man.  And  now  yoii 
had  better  see  to  your  grandmother  ;  I  am  afraid  the  dear 
old  lady  is  not  very  well. " 


CHAPLER   XI. 


THE    FIRST    TIME. 


The  village  of  Lower  Cliffe  was  a  collection  of  about 
twenty  wretched  cottages,  nestled  away  under  bleak, 
craggy  rocks,  that  sheltered  them  from  the  broiling  sea«' 
side  sun.  About  a  dozen  yards  from  the  one  straggling 
road,  winding  away  among  rocks  and  juttmg  crags,  was 
the  long,  sandy  beach,  where  the  fishermeii  mended  their 
nets  in  the  sunny  sunimer  days,  and  where  their  fishing- 
boats  were  moored,  and  away  beyond  it  spread  the  blue 
and  boundless  sea.  To  the  right,  the  rough,  irregular  road 
lost  itself  in  a  mist  of  wet  marshes  and  swampy  wastes, 
covered  with  tall  rank  grass,  weedy  flowers — blue,  and 
yellow,  and  flame-colored — and  where  the  cattle  grazed 
on  the  rank  herbage  all  day  long.  To  the  left  were  piled 
up  miniature  hills  of  weed-covered  rocks,  and  in  their 
midst  the  Demon's  Tower.  In  the  background  the  slop- 
ing upland  was  bounded  by  the  high  wall  that  inclosed 
the  park  grounds  and  preserves  of  the  castle. 

The  village  belonged  to  the  estate  of  Lady  Agnes  Shir* 


!  ;| 


i 


11 
I:  J 


If 


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90 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


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f- 


ley  ;  but  that  august  lady  had  never  set  her  foot  therein. 
In  a  grand  and  lofty  sort  of  way  she  was  aware  of  such  a 
place,  when  her  agent,  Mr.  Sweet,  paid  in  the  rents  ;  and 
she  scarcely  knew  anything  more  about  it  than  she  did  of 
any  Hottentot  village  in  Southern  Africa.  And  yet  it  was 
down  here  in  this  obscure  place  that  her  lawyer  located 
the  littl  '  dancing-girl  whom  he  had  promised  one  day  to 
make  a  lady. 

The  delightful  little  cottage  he  had  mentioned  to  Mr. 
Black  .stood  awa}''  by  itself  at  the  end  of  the  village 
farthest  from  the  marshes,  and  nearest  the  park  gate — a 
little  whitewashed,  one-story  affair,  with  its  solitary  door 
facing  the  sea,  and  opening  immediately  into  the  only 
large  *■  J  .  of"  the  house.  The  place  had  been  newly  fur- 
nished by  the  benevolent  lawyer  before  his  proleges  came 
there  ;  and  this  room  was  kitchen,  sitting-room,  dining- 
room,  and  parlor  all  in  one.  There  were  two  small  bed- 
rooms opening  off  it — one  occupied  by  the  old  woman 
Judith,  the  other  by  Barbara  ;  and  Mr.  Peter  Black  courted 
repose  in  a  loft  above. 

The  little  dancing-girl,  much  as  she  had  regretted  being 
taken  away  from  her  theater  at  first,  grew  reconciled  to 
her  new  home  in  a  wonderfully  short  space  of  time.  Mr. 
Sweet  had  given  her  a  boat — the  daintest  little  skiff  that 
ever  was  seen — painted  black,  with  a  crimson  streak  run- 
ninground  it,  and  the  name  "  Barbara"  printed  in  crimson 
letters  on  the  stern.  And  before  she  had  been  living:  two 
days  in  the  cottage,  Barbara  had  learned  to  row. 

There  must  have  been  some  wild  blood  in  the  girl's  veins, 
for  she  lived  out  of  doors  from  morning  till  night,  like  a 
gypsy — climbing  up  impassable  places  Hke  a  cat — making 
the  acquaintance  of  everybody  in  the  village,  and  taking 
to  the  water  like  a  duck.  Out  long  before  the  sun  rose 
red  over  the  sea,  and  oat  until  the  stars  sparkled  on  the 
waves,  the  child,  who  had  been  cooped  up  all  her  life  in 
dingy,  grimy  city  walls,  drank  in  the  bracing  sea  air,  as 
if  it  had  been  the  elixir  of  life,  went  dancing  over  the 
marshes,  gp thering  bouquets  of  the  tall,  rank,  reedy  blos- 
soms, singing  as  she  went,  springing  from  jag  to  jag  along 
the  dizzy  cliffs,  with  the  wind  in  her  teeth,  and  her  pretty 
brown  hair  blowing  in  the  breeze  behind  her.  It  was  a 
new  world  to  Barbara. 

Mr.  Sweet  was  certainly  the  most  benevolent  of  men. 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


9« 


He  not  only  paid  the  rent  for  the  tenants  in  the  sea-side 
cottajj;-e,  but  he  bought  and  paid  for  the  furniture  himself, 
and  jnade  Barbara  new  presents  every  day.  And  Barbara 
took  his  presents — his  pretty  boat,  the  new  dresses,  the 
rich  fruits  and  flowers  from  the  conservatories  and  parterres 
of  the  castle — and  liked  the  gifts  immensely,  and  began  to 
look  even  with  a  little  complacency  on  the  giver.  ]^ut  be- 
ing of  an  intensely  jealous  nature,  with  the  wildesit  dreams 
of  ambition  in  her  childish  head,  and  the  most  passionate 
and  impetuous  of  tempers,  she  never  got  on  very  friendly 
terms  with  any  one. 

Barbara  certainly  was  half  a  barbarian.  She  had  not 
apparently  the  slightest  affection  either  for  father  or  grand- 
mother ;  and  if  she  had  a  heart,  it  lay  dormant  yet,  and 
the  girl  loved  nobody  but  herself. 

^Ir.  Sweet  studied  her  profoundly,  but  she  puzzled  him. 
Scarcely  a  day  passed  but  he  was  at  the  cottage — taking 
the  trouble  to  walk  down  from  his  own  handsome  house 
in  Cliftonlea  ;  and  Barbara  was  never  displeased  to  see 
him,  because  his  hands  or  his  pockets  had  always  some- 
thing good  for  her. 

One  evening,  long  after  sunset,  Mr.  Sweet  turned  down 
the  rocky  road  leading  to  the  fisherman's  cottage.  A 
high  wind  was  surging  over  the  sea,  and  rendering  it  nec- 
essary for  him  to  clutch  his  hat  with  both  hands  to  prevent 
its  blowing  into  the  regions  of  space;  the  sky  was  of  a 
leaden  gray,  with  bars  of  hard  red  in  the  west,  and  the 
waves  cannonaded  the  shore  with  a  roar  like  thunder. 
No  one  was  abroad.  At  the  village,  all  were  at  supper. 
But  Mr  Sweet  looked  anxiously  for  a  lithe  girlish  figure, 
bounding  from  rock  to  rock  as  if  treading  on  air — a  sight 
he  very  often  saw  when  walking  down  that  road.  No  such 
figure  was  flying  along,  however,  in  the  high  gale  this 
evening  ;  and  while  he  watched  for  it  over  the  cliffs  and 
sandhills,  his  foot  stumbled  against  something  lying  in 
the  sand,  with  its  head  pillowed  in  the  midst  of  the  reeds 
and  rushes. 

The  recumbent  figure  instantly  sprang  erect,  with  angry 
exclamations,  and  he  saw  the  sunburnt  face  of  her  he 
was  looking  for.  Something  had  evidently  gone  wrong  ; 
for  the  bright  face  looked  dark  and  sullen,  and  she  began 
instantly,  and  with  asperity,  the  attack. 

"  What  are  you  about,  Mr  Sweet,   trampling  on  people 


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23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

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tVEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 
feet,    as  if   they   were  made   of   cast 


with   your 
iron  ? 

"  My  dear  Miss  Barbara,  I  beg  a  thousand  pardons  !  I 
really  never  saw  you." 

**  Oh  !  you  didn't  ?  You're  becoming  blind,  I  suppose  f 
But  it's  always  the  way.  I  never  go  anywhere  for  peace 
but  you  or  somebody  else  is  sure  to  come  bothering." 

With  which  Barbara  sat  upright,  a  very  cross  scowl  dis- 
figuring her  pretty  face,  and  gathering  up  the  profusion  of 
her  brown  hair,  tangled  among  the  reeds  and  thistles, 
began  pushing  it  away  under  her  gypsy  hat.  Mr.  Sweet 
took  a  bunch  of  luscious  grapes  out  of  his  pocket,  and  laid 
them  by  way  of  a  peace-offering,  in  her  lap. 

"What's  the  matter  with  my  little  Barbara?  Some- 
thing is  wrong." 

"No,  there  isn't!"  said  Barbara,  snappishly,  and  with- 
out condescending  to  notice  the  grapes.  "Nothing 
wrong." 

"  VVhat  have  you  been  about  all  day  ?  " 

"Nothing." 

"Your  general  occupation,  I  believe  !  Has  the  dear 
old  lady  been  scolding.?" 

"  No  !  And  I  shouldn't  care  if  she  had  !  " 

' '  Have  you  been  to  supper .?  " 

"No." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  lying  there  ? " 

"I  don't  know.  I  wish  you  wouldn't  torment  me  with 
questions." 

Mr.  Sweet  laughed,  but  he  went  on  perseveringly,  de- 
termined to  get  at  the  bottom  of  Barbara's  fit  of  ill-humor. 

"  Were  you  in  Cliftonlea  this  afternoon  .?  " 

The  right  spring  was  touched — Barbara  sprang  up  with 
flashing  eyes. 

'*  Yes,  I  was  in  Cliftonlea,  and  I'll  never  go  there  again  ! 
There  was  everybody  making  such  fools  of  themselves 
over  that  little  pink  and  white  wax  doll  from  France,  just 
as  if  she  were  a  queen.  She  and  that  cousin  of  hers,  that 
tall  fellow  they  call  Tom  Shirley,  were  riding  through  the 
town  ;  she  on  her  white  pony,  with  her  blue  riding-habit 
and  black  hat,  yellow  curls,  and  baby  face,  and  everybody 
running  out  to  see  them,  and  the  women  dropping  courte- 
sies, and  the  men  taking  off  their  hats,  as  they  passed. 
Bah  I  it  was  enough  to  make  one  sick  !  " 


L'. 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


93 


;  with 


with 


Mr.  Sweet  suppressed  a  whistle  and  a  laugh.  Envy,  and 
jealousy,  and  pride,  as  usual,  were  at  the  bottom  of  Miss 
Barbaras  ill-temper,  for  the  humble  fisherman's  girl  had 
within  her  a  consuming  fire — the  fire  of  a  fierce  and  indomi- 
table pride.  He  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and  looked 
at  her  passionate  face  with  a  smile. 

"They  are  right,  my  dear!  She  is  the  richest  of  heir- 
esses, and  the  Princess  of  Sussex  !  What  would  you  give 
to  change  places  with  her,  Barbara?" 

"  Don't  ask  me  what  I  would  give,"  said  Barbara, 
fiercely.  "  I  would  give  my  life,  my  soul,  if  I  could  sell 
it,  as  I  have  read  of  men  doing  ;  but  it's  no  use  talking  ;  I 
am  nothing  but  a  miserable  pauper,  and  always  shall  be." 

The  lawyer  was  habitually  calm,  and  had  wonderful  self- 
possession  ;  but  now  his  yellow  face  actually  flushed,  his 
small  eyes  kindled,  and  the  smile  on  his  face  was  like  the 
gleam  of  a  dagger. 

"No,  Barbara,"  he  cried,  almost  hissing  the  words  be- 
tween his  shut  teeth  ;  "a  time  will  come  when  you  will 
hold  your  head  far  higher  than  that  yellow-haired  up- 
start !  Trust  to  me,  Barbara,  and  you  shall  be  a  lady 
yet. " 

Returned  away,  humming  as  h«  went.  "There's  a 
good  time  coming,  wait  a  little  longer."  And  walking 
much  faster  than  was  his  decorous  wont,  he  pjissed  the  cot- 
tage and  entered  the  park-gates,  evidently  on  his  way  to 
the  castle. 

Barbara  looked  after  him  for  a  moment  a  little  surprised  ; 
and  then  becoming  aware  that  the  night  was  falling,  and 
the  sea  rising,  and  the  wind  raging,  darted  along  the  rocks, 
and  watched  with  a  sort  of  gloomy  pleasure  the  wild 
waves  dashing  themselves  frantically  along  their  dark 
sides. 

"What  a  night  it  will  be,  and  how  the  minute-guns  will 
sound  before  morning  !  "  she  said,  speaking  to  herself 
and  the  elements.  "And  how  the  surf  will  boil  in  the 
Demons  Tower,  when  the  tide  rises  !  I  will  go  and  have 
a  look  before  I  go  in." 

Over  the  rocks  she  flew,  her  hands  on  her  sides  ;  her  long 
hair  and  short  dress  streaming  in  the  gale  ;  her  eyes  and 
cheeks  kindling  with  excitement  at  the  wild  scene  and 
hour. 

The  Demon's  Tower  was  much  more  easily  scaled  from 


1 « 


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94 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


without  than  within,  and  the  little  tight-rope  dancer  could 
almost  tread  on  air.  So  she  flew  up  the  steep  sides,  hand 
over  hand,  swiftly  as  a  sailor  climbs  the  rigging,  and 
reached  the  top,  breathless  and  flushed.  Pushing  away 
the  hair  that  the  wind  was  blowing  into  her  eyes,  she 
looked  down  expecting  to  hear  nothing  but  the  echo  of 
the  blast,  and  see  the  spray  fly  in  showers,  when,  to  her 
boundless  astonishment,  she  heard  instead  a  sharp  cry, 
and  saw  two  human  figures  kneeling  on  the  stone  floor,  and 
a  third  falling  back  from  the  side  with  an  alarming  sound. 

Barbara  was,  for  a  moment,  mute  with  amazement ;  the 
next,  she  had  comprehended  the  whole  thing  instinctively, 
and  found  her  voice.  Leaning  over  the  dizzy  height,  she 
shouted  at  the  top  of  her  clear  lungs  : 

''Hallo!" 

The  voice,  clear  as  a  bugle  blast,  reached  the  ears  of 
one  of  the  kneeling  figures.  It  was  Vivia,  and  she  looked 
up  to  see  a  weird  face,  with  streaming  hair  and  dark  eyes, 
looking  down  at  her,  in  the  ghostly  evening  light. 

"  Hallo  !  "  repeated  Barbara,  leaning  farther  over. 
"What  in  the  world  are  you  doing  down  there?  Don't 
you  know  you'll  be  drowned  ?  " 

Vivia  sprang  to  her  feet  and  held  up  her  arms  with  a 
wild  cry  : 

**  Oh,  save  us  !  save  us  !  save  us  ! " 

**  Yes,  I  will  ;  just  wait  five  minutes  I  "  exclaimed  Bar- 
bara, who,  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment,  forgot  every- 
thing but  their  danger.     "I'll  save  you  if  I  drown  for  it." 

Down  the  rocky  sides  of  the  tower  Barbara  went  as  she 
had  never  gone  before,  bruising  her  hands  till  they  bled, 
without  feeling  the  pain.  Over  the  craggy  peak,  like  an 
arrow  from  a  bow,  and  down  to  a  small,  sheltered  cove 
between  two  projecting  cliffs,  where  her  little  black-and- 
red  boat,  with  the  oars  in  it,  lay  safely  moored.  In  an 
instant  the  boat  was  untied,  Barbara  leaped  in,  and 
shoved  off,  seated  herself  in  the  thwart,  and  took  the 
oars.  It  was  a  task  of  no  slight  danger,  for  outside  the 
little  cove  the  waves  ran  high  ;  but  Barbara  had  never 
thought  of  danger — never  thought  of  anything,  but  that 
three  persons  were  drowning  within  the  Demon's  Cave. 

The  little  skiff  rode  the  waves  like  a  cockle-shell  ;  and 
the  girl,  as  she  bent  the  oars,  had  to  stoop  her  head  low 
to  avoid  the  spray  being  dashed  in  her  face.     The  even- 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


9S 


dBar- 
every- 
br  it." 
as  she 
'  bled, 
ike  an 
cove 
and- 
lln  an 
and 
k  the 
e  the 
never 
,t  that 
ave. 

and 
d  low 
even- 


ing, too,  was  rapidly  darkening  ;  the  fierce  bars  of  red 
had  died  out  in  the  ghastly  sky,  and  great  drops  of  rain 
began  splashing  on  the  angry  and  heaving  sea.  The  tide 
had  risen  so  quickly,  that  the  distance  to  the  cavern  was 
an  ominous  length,  and  Barbara  had  never  been  in  such 
weather  before,  but  still  the  brave  girl  kept  on,  undis- 
mayed, and  reached  it  at  last,  just  as  the  waves  were  be- 
ginning to  wash  the  stone  floor.  The  boat  shot  on 
through  the  black  arch,  stopping  beside  the  prostrate 
figure  of  Tom,  and  their  rescuer  sprang  out,  striving  to 
recognize  them  in  the  gloom. 

"Is  he  dead  }  "  was  her  first  question,  looking  down  at 
the  recumbent  figure. 

"Not  quite!"  said  Tom,  feebly,  but  with  strength 
enough  in  his  voice  to  put  the  matter  bey^^nd  all  doubt. 
*'Who  are  you  ?" 

"  Barbara  Black.     Who  are  you } " 

"Tom  Shirley — what's  left  of  me.  Help  those  two 
into  the  boat,  and  then  I  will  try  to  follow  them  before 
we  all  drown  here." 

"  In  with  you,  then  !  "  cried  Barbara. 

And  Margaret  at  once  obeyed,  but  Vivia  held  back. 

"No,  not  until  you  get  in  first,  Tom.  Help  me  to  raise 
him,  please.     I  am  afraid  he  is  badly  hurt." 

Barbara  obeyed,  and  with  much  trouble  and  more  than 
one  involuntary  groan  from  Tom,  the  feat  was  accom- 
plished, and  he  was  safely  lying  in  the  bottom.  Then 
the  two  girls  followed  him,  and  soon  the  little  black-and 
red  boat  was  tossing  over  the  surges,  guided  through  the 
deepening  darkness  by  Barbara's  elastic  arms. 

But  the  task  was  a  hard  one  ;  more  than  once  Mar- 
garet's shrieks  of  terror  had  rung  out  on  the  wind;  and 
more  than  once  Barbara's  brave  heart  had  grown  chill 
with  fear  ;  but  some  good  angel  guarded  the  frail  skiff, 
and  it  was  moored  safely  in  its  own  little  cove  at  last. 
Not,  however,  until  night  had  fallen  in  utter  darkness, 
and  the  rain  was  sweeping  over  the  sea  in  drenching  tor- 
rents. Barbara  sprang  out  and  secured  her  boat  as  it  had 
been  before. 

"Now,  then,  we  are  all  safe  at  last!  "she  cried.  "And 
as  he  can't  walk,  you  two  must  stay  with  him  until  I 
come  back  with  help.  Don't  be  afraid.  I  won't  be  gone 
long." 


'r 


I  i 

I', 'I    ! 


l! 


I  I 


I 


m 


I  !' 


I'i 


96 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


She  was  not  gone  long.  Fifteen  minutes  had  not 
elapsed  until  she  was  back  with  her  father  and  another 
tisherman  she  had  met  on  the  way.  But  every  second 
had  seemed  an  hour  to  the  three  cowering  in  tlie  boat, 
with  the  rain  beating  pitilessly  on  their  heads.  Barbara 
carried  a  dark  lantern  ;  and  by  its  light  the  two  men 
lifted  Tom  and  bore  him  between  them  toward  the  cot- 
tage, while  Barbara  went  slowly  before,  carrying  fhe 
lantern,  and  with  Vivia  and  Margaret  each  clinging  to  an 
arm. 

A  bright  wood  fire  was  blazing  on  the  cottage  hearth 
when  they  entered  ;  for  though  the  month  was  Septem- 
ber, Judith's  bones  were  old  and  chill,  and  Judith  sat 
crouching  over  it  now,  while  she  waited  their  coming. 
The  dripping  procession  entered,  and  Vivia  thought  the 
fire  the  pleasantest  thing  she  had  ever  seen  at  Castle 
Cliffe.  A  wooden  settle  stood  before  the  hearth ;  Tom 
was  placed  thereon,  and  Margaret  dropped  down  beside 
it,  exhausted  and  panting;  ard  Vivia  and  Barbara  stood 
opposite  and  looked  at  each  other  across  the  hearth. 
Vivia's  rich  silk  dress  hung  dripping  and  clammy  around 
her,  and  her  long  sunny  curls  were  drenched  with  rain 
and  sea-spray.  Barbara  recognized  her  instantly,  and  so 
did  the  fisherman  who  had  helped  her  father  to  carry 
Tom. 

"It  is  Miss  Shirley  and  Master  Tom  ! "  he  cried  out. 
*'0h,  what  will  my  lady  say?  " 

Old  Judith  started  up  with  a  shrill  scream,  and  darted 
forward. 

"  Miss  Shirley,  the  heiress  !     Which  of  them  is  she  ?  " 

"  I  am,"  said  Vivia, turning  her  clear  blue  eyes  on  the 
wrinkled  face,  with  the  simple  dignity  natural  to  her  ; 
"and  you  must  have  word  sent  to  the  castle  imme- 
diately." 

Old  Judith,  shaking  like  one  in  an  ague  fit,  and  looking 
from  o"  3  to  the  other,  stood  grasping  the  back  of  the 
settle  lor  support. 

There  they  were,  facing  each  other  for  the  first  time, 
and  neither  dreaming  hovv  darkly  their  destinies  were  to 
be  interlinked — neither  the  dark-browed  dancing-girl, 
nor  the  sunny-haired  heiress  of  Castle  Cliffe. 


I 


I 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


99 


lad  not 

another 
'  second 
le  boat, 
Barbara 
vo  men 
the  cot- 
\ng  fhe 
\g  to  an 

3  hearth 
Septem- 
dith  sat 
coming, 
ight  the 
t  Castle 
h  ;  Tom 
I  beside 
a  stood 
I  hearth. 
'  around 
ith  rain 
,,  and  so 

0  carry 

ied  out. 

1  darted 

she  ? " 
on  the 

to  her  ; 
imme- 

looking 
:  of  the 

st  time, 
were  to 
ing-girl, 


M 


CHAPTER  XII. 


THE     NUNS     GRAVE. 


"Some  one  must  go  to  the  Castle,"  repeated  Vivia,  a 
little  imperiously.  ''Papa  and  grandmamma  will  be 
anxious,  and  Tom's  hurt  must  be  attended  to  imme- 
diately." 

Old  Judith,  like  a  modern  Gorgon,  stood  staring  at  this 
figure,  her  bleared  eyes  riveted  immovably  on  her  face, 
ana  shaking  like  a  withered  aspen  as  she  clutched  the 
settle.  Victoria  stood  like  a  little  queen  looking  down  on 
her  subjects ;  her  bright  silk  dress  hanging  dripping 
around  her,  and  her  long  hair  uncurled,  soaking  with 
sea-spray,  and  falling  in  drenched  masses  over  her 
shoulders.  Barbara,  who  had  been  watching  her,  seem- 
ingly as  much  fascinated  as  her  grandmother,  started  up 
impetuously. 

"I'll  go,  grandmother.  I  can  run  fast,  and  I  won't  be 
ten  minutes." 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  interposed  Mr. 
Black,  in  his  customary  gruff  tones.  "You're  a  pretty- 
looking  object  to  go  anywhere,  wet  as  a  water-dog  !  Let 
the  young  lady  go  herself.  She  knows  the  way  better 
than  you." 

Victoria  turned  her  blue  eyes,  flashing  haughty  fire,  on 
the  surly  speaker  ;  but  without  paying  the  slightest  at- 
tention to  him,  Barbara  seized  a  shawl,  and  throwing  it 
over  her  head,  ^ushed  into  the  wild,  wet  night. 

The  storm  had  now  broken  in  all  its  fury.  The  dark- 
ness was  almost  palpable.  The  rain  swept  wildly  in  the 
face  of  the  blast  over  the  sea,  and  the  thunder  of  the 
waves  against  the  shore,  and  the  lamentable  wail  of  the 
wind  united  in  a  grand  diapason  of  their  ov/n.  But  the 
fleet-footed  dancing-girl  heeded  neither  the  wind  that 
seemed  threaten  ing  to  catch  up  her  light  form  and  whirl 
it  into  the  regions  of  eternal  space,  nor  the  rushing  rain 
that  beat  in  her  face  and  blinded  her,  as  she  leaped  at 


fl    ::^l 


/f  I 


■  I- 


ilf'  ) 


il 


i  IM     ! 


.      I 


» 


98 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


random  over  the  slimy  rocks.  More  by  instinct  than  eye- 
sight, she  found  her  way  to  the  park-gates — they  were 
closed  and  bolted  ;  but  that  fact  was  a  mere  trifle  to  her. 
She  clambered  up  the  wall  like  a  cat,  and  dropped,  cat-like, 
on  her  feet,  among  the  wet  shrubbery  within.  There  was 
no  finding  a  path,  in  the  darkness  ;  but  she  ran  headlong 
among  the  trees,  slipping,  and  falling,  and  rising,  only  to 
slip,  and  fall,  and  rise  again,  until,  at  last,  as  she  was  stop- 
ping exhausted  in  despair,  thinking  she  had  lost  her  way 
in  the  thickly  wooded  plantation,  she  saw  a  number  of 
twinkling  lights  flashing  in  and  out,  like  fire-flies,  in  the 
darkness,  and  heard  the  echo  of  distant  shouts. 

Barbara  comprehended  instantly  that  it  was  the  serv- 
ants out  with  lanterns  in  search  of  the  missing  trio  ;  and 
starting  up,  she  flew  on  again  at  breakneck  speed,  until 
her  rapid  career  was  brought  to  a  close  by  her  running 
with  a  shock  against  two  person"  advancing  from  an 
opposite  direction.  The  impetus  nearly  knocked  her 
down  ;  but  recovering  her  center  of  gravity  with  an  effort, 
Barbara  clutched  the  branches  of  a  tree,  and  paused  to  re- 
cover the  breath  that  had  been  nearly  knocked  out  of  her 
by  concussion. 

"Whom  have  we  here?"  said  the  voice  of  one  of  the 
men,  coming  to  a  halt ;  "is  it  a  water-witch,  or  a  mer- 
maid, or " 

"Why,  it's  little  Barbara  :  "  interrupted  the  other,  hold- 
ing up  the  lantern  he  carried.  "Little  Barbara  Black, 
actually  !  My  dear  child,  how  in  the  world  came  you  to 
be  out  and  up  here  on  such  a  night  ?  " 

Barbara  looked  at  the  two  speakers,  and  recognized  in 
the  first,  Colonel  Shirley,  and  in  the  secoid,  Mr.  Sweet, 
who  held  the  lantern  close  to  her  face,  a  id  gazed  at  her 
in  consternation. 

"They're  saved,  Mr.  Sweet;  they're  all  saved!  You 
need  not  look  for  them  any  more,  for  they're  down  at  our 
cottage,  and  I've  come  up  here  to  bring  the  news." 

"Saved!  How — where — what  do  you  mean,  Bar- 
bara?" 

'  *  Oh,  they  were  in  the  Demon's  Tower — went  there  at 
low  water  :  and  the  tide  rose,  and  they  couldn't  get  out ; 
and  so  I  took  my  boat  and  rowed  them  ashore ;  and  he 
has  hurt  himself,  and  they're  all  down  at  our  house,  wait- 
ing for  somebody  to  come. " 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


99 


Bar- 


Colonel  Sh^loy  laughed,  thoug:h  a  little  dismayed 
withal,  at  this  very  intelligible  explanation. 

*'  Who  is  this  little  sea-goddess,  Sweet,  and  where  does 
she  come  from  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  From  Lower  Cliffe,  Colonel.  Her  father  is  a  fisher- 
man there,  and  I  understand  the  whole  matter  now." 

"Then  we  must  go  down  to  Lower  Cliffe  immediately. 
What  could  have  brought  them  to  the  Demon's  Tower  ? 
But,  of  course,  it's  some  of  Master  Tom's  handiwork. 
Wait  one  moment,  Sweet,  while  I  send  word  to  Lady 
Agnes,  and  tell  the  rest  to  give  over  the  search.  What 
an  escape  they  must  have  had  if  they  were  caught  by  the 
tide  in  the  Demon's  Tower  !  " 

"And,  Colonel,  you  had  better  give  orders  to  have  a 
conveyance  of  some  sort  follow  us  to  the  village.  The 
young  ladies  cannot  venture  out  in  such  wind  and  rain  ; 
and,  if  I  understood  our  little  messenger  aright,  some  one 
is  hurt.  Barbara,  my  dear  child,  how  could  they  have 
the  heaii  to  send  you  out  in  such  weather?  " 

"They  didn't  send  me — I  came  !  '"  said  Barbara,  com- 
posedly, as  the  colonel  disappeared  for  a  moment  in  the 
darkness.  "  Father  wanted  me  not  to  come,  but  I  don't 
mind  the  weather.  I'll  go  home  now,  and  you  can  show 
the  gentleman  the  way  yourself." 

"No,  no  ;  I  cannot  have  my  little  Barbara  risking  her 
neck  in  that  fashion.  Here  comes  Colonel  Shirley.  So 
give  me  your  hand,  Barbara,  and  I  will  show  you  the 
way  by  the  light  of  my  lantern." 

But  Miss  Barbara,  with  a  little  disdainful  astonishment 
even  at  the  offer,  declined  it,  and  ran  along  in  the  pelting 
rain,  answermg  all  the  colonel's  profuse  questions,  until 
the  whole  facts  of  the  case  were  gained. 

"Very  rash  of  Mr.  Tom — very  rash,  indeed  !  "  remarked 
Mr.  Sweet,  at  the  conclusion  ;  "and  I  hope  his  narrow 
escape  and  broken  head  will  be  a  lesson  to  him  the  rest 
of  his  life.     Here  we  are,  Colonel — this  is  the  house." 

The  ruddy  glow  of  the  firelight  was  shining  still,  a 
cheerful  beacon,  from  the  storm  windows,  to  all  storm- 
beaten  wayfarers  without.  Barl)ara  opened  the  door  and 
bounded  in,  shaking  the  water  from  her  soaking  garments 
as  she  ran,  followed  by  the  lawyer  and  the  Indian  officer. 
The  wood  fire  blazed  still  on  the  hearth  ;  Tom  lay  on  the 
settle  before  it ;  Margaret  and  Vivia  were  steaming^  away 


i 


b^ 


U 


V. 


>  I 


ti 


.   ''! 


m\ 


'!  : 


,■ 


lit 


100 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


in  front  of  the  blaze,  and  Mr.  Peter  Black  sat  in  the 
chimney-corner  sulky  and  sleepy.  But  old  Judith's  chair 
opposite  was  vacant,  and  old  Judith  herself  was  nowhere 
to  be  seen. 

Vivia  started  up,  as  they  entered,  withacry  of  joy,  and 
sprang  into  her  father's  arms. 

"Oh,  papa,  I  am  so  glad  you've  come  !  Oh,  papa,  I 
thought  I  was  never  going  to  see  you  again  !  " 

"My  darling!  And  to  think  of  your  being  in  such 
danger,  and  I  not  know  it !  " 

"Oh,  papa,  it  was  dreadful  !  and  we  would  all  have 
been  drowned,  only  for  that  girl ! " 

"She  is  a  second  Grace  Darling,  that  brave  little  girl, 
and  you  and  I  can  never  repay  her  for  to-night's  work, 
my  Vivia.  But  this  rash  boy,  Tom — I  hope  the  poor 
fellow  has  not  paid  too  dearly  for  his  visit  to  the  Demon's 
Tower." 

"  He  is  not  seriously  hurt,  papa,  but  his  face  is  bruised, 
and  he  says  he  thinks  one  of  his  arms  is  broken." 

"It's  all  right  with  Mr.  Tom,  Colonel,"  said  Mr.  Sweet, 
who  had  been  examining  Tom's  wound.'D,  looking  up 
cheerily.  "One  arm  is  broken,  and  there  are  a  few  con- 
tusions on  his  head-piece,  but  he  will  be  over  them  all  be- 
fore he  is  twice  marriec.  Ah  !  there  comes  the  carriage 
now  1  " 

"And  how  is  it  with  little  Maggie?"  said  the  colonel, 
patting  her  on  the  head,  with  a  smile.  "Well,  Tom,  my 
boy,  this  is  a  pretty  evening's  work  of  yours — isn't  it  ? " 

Tom  looked  up  into  the  handsome  face  bending  over 
him,  and,  despite  his  pallor,  had  the  grace  to  blush. 

"I  am  sorry,  with  all  my  heart;  and  I  wish  I  had 
broken  my  neck  instead  of  my  arm — it  would  only  have 
served  me  right !  " 

"Very  true;  but  still,  as  it  wouldn't  have  helped 
matters  much,  perhaps  it's  as  well  as  it  is.  Do  you  think 
you  can  walk  to  the  carriage  ?  " 

Tom  rose  with  some  difficulty,  for  the  wounds  on  his 
head  made  him  sick  and  giddy,  and  leaning  heavily  on 
Mr.  Sweet's  arm,  managed  to  reach  the  door. 

The  colonel  looked  at  Mr.  Black,  who  still  maintained 
his  seat,  despite  the  presence  of  his  distinguished  visitors, 
and  never  turned  his  gloomy  eyes  from  the  dancing 
blaze. 


'i 


1^'^■ 


WEDDED  FOR  /.  ^UE. 


101 


"Come  away,  papa,"  whispered  Vi via,  shrinking  away 
with  an  expression  of  repulsion  from  the  man  in  the 
chimney-corner.     "  I  don't  like  that  man  !  " 

Low  as  the  words  wore  spoken,  they  reached  the  man 
in  question,  who  looked  up  at  her  with  his  customary 
savage  scowl. 

"I  haven't  done  nothing  to  you,  young  lady,  that  I 
knows  on  ;  and  if  you  don't  like  me  or  my  house — which 
neither  is  much  to  luck  at,  Lord  knows  ! — the  best  thing 
you  can  do  is  to  go  back  to  your  fine  castle,  and  not 
come  here  any  more  !  " 

Colonel  Shirley  turned  the  light  of  his  dark  bright  eyes 
full  on  the  speaker,  who  quailed  under  the  keen  glance, 
and  sank  down  in  his  scat  like  the  coward  he  was. 

"  My  good  fellow,  there  is  no  necessity  to  make  your- 
self disagreeable.  The  young  lady  is  not  likely  to  trouble 
you  again,  if  she  can  help  it.  Meantime,  perhaps  this 
will  repay  you  for  any  incovenience  you  may  have  been 
put  to  to-night.  And  as  for  this  little  girl — your  daughter, 
I  presume — we  will  try  if  we  cannot  find  some  better  way 
of  recompensing  her,  in  part  at  least,  for  the  invaluable 
service  she  has  rendered." 

He  threw  his  purse  to  the  fisherman,  as  he  would  have 
thrown  a  bone  to  a  dog,  and  turned,  an  instant  after,  with 
his  own  bright  smile,  to  the  fisherman's  daughter. 

She  stood  leaning  against  the  mantel,  the  firelight  shin- 
ing in  her  splendid  eyes,  gilding  her  crimson  cheeks,  and 
sending  spears  of  light  in  and  out  through  the  tangled 
waves  of  her  wet  brown  hair.  Something  in  the  attitude, 
in  the  dark,  beautiful  face,  in  the  luminous  splendor  of 
the  large  eyes,  recalled  vividly  to  the  colonel  some  dream 
of  the  past — something  seen  before — seen,  and  lost  for- 
ever. But  the  wistful,  earnest  look  vanished  as  he  turned 
to  her,  and  with  it  the  momentary  resemblance,  as  it 
struck  him  as  a  lan^e  strikes  a  seared  wound. 

"Ask  her  to  come  to  the  castle  to-morrow,  papa," 
again  whispered  Vivia.      •'!  like  that  girl  so  much  !  " 

"So  you  should,  my  dear.  She  has  saved  your  life. 
Barbara Your  name  is  Barbara,  is  it  not }  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"My  little  girl  wants  you  to  come  to  visit  her  to-mor- 
row, and  I  second  her  wish.  Do  you  think  you  can  find 
your  way  through  the  park  gates  again,  Barbara  ? " 


102 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


h  ^  ' 


I  '1.   !' 


i'        il 


'    II 


!      I 


1      1^ 


The  smile  on  the  Indian  officer's  face  was  infectious. 
Barbara  smiled  brightly  back  an  answer ;  and  albeit 
Barbara's  smiles  were  few  and  far  between,  they  were  as 
beautiful  as  rare. 

"  Yes,  sir,  if  you  wish  it." 

"I  nevor  wished  for  anything  more,  and  I  shall  be 
glad  to  see  you  there  every  day  for  the  future.  Genevieve, 
bid  B'irbara  good-night,  and  come." 

Vivia  held  out  her  lily-leaf  of  a  hand,  and  Barbara  just 
touched  it  with  her  brown  fingers. 

"  Don't  forget.  I  shall  be  waiting  for  you  at  the  park 
gates.     Good-night." 

"  I  shall  not  forget.     Good-night." 

The  tall,  gallant,  soldier-like  form,  and  the  little  vision 
in  shot  silk  and  yellow  hair,  went  out  into  the  stormy 
night,  and  Barbara  went  to  her  room,  but,  for  once  in  her 
life,  not  to  sleep.  Her  book  of  life  had  opened  on  a  new 
page  that  day.  The  vague  yearnings  in  her  heart,  that 
had  so  long  grown  wild,  like  rank  weeds,  had  struck 
deeper  root,  and  sprang  up  strong  and  tall,  to  poison  her 
whole  future  life. 

It  was  some  time  in  the  afternoon  of  the  following  day, 
when  Barbara  walked  slowly — something  unusual  for  her 
— up  the  rough  road  to  the  park  gates.  As  she  passed 
through,  and  went  on  under  the  shadows  of  some  giant 
pines,  a  bright  little  figure  came  flying  down  the  avenue 
.  to  meet  her. 
S;      "Oh,  Barbara!" 

And  two  little  hands  clasped  hers  with  childish  impet- 
uosity. 

"  Oh,  Barbara  !     I  was  so  afraid  you  would  not  come  !  " 

'  *  I  couldn't  come  any  sooner.  I  was  in  Cliftonlea  all  the 
morning.  Oh,  what  great  trees  those  are  here  !  and  what 
a  queer  old  cross  that  is  standing  up  there  among  them  !  " 

"  That's  the  ruins  of  the  convent  that  used  to  be  here 
long  .?.go — hundreds  and  hundreds  of  years  ago — when 
there  were  convents  and  monasteires  all  through  England  ; 
and  the  last  abbess  was  murdered  there.  Tom  told  me 
all  about  it  the  other  day,  and  showed  me  her  grave. 
Come  I  I'll  show  it  to  you  now." 

The  two  children — the  high-born  heiress,  in  rose  silk 
and  the  daintiest  of  little  French  hats,  and  the  low-bred 
dancing  girl,  in  her  plain  merino  and  cotton  sun-bonnet— 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


103 


strayed  away  together,  chattering  like  magpies,  among 
the  j^loomy  elms  and  yews,   down  to  the  Nun's  Grave. 

With  the  tall  plantation  of  elms  and  oaks  belting  it  on 
every  side,  and  the  thickly  interlacing  branches  of  yew 
overhead,  the  place  was  dark  at  all  times,  and  a  solemn 
hush  rested  ever  around  it.  The  very  birds  seemed  to 
cease  their  songs  in  the  gloomy  spot,  and  the  dead 
nun,  after  the  lapse  of  hundreds  of  years,  had  her  lonely 
grave  as  undisturbed  as  when  she  had  first  been  placed 
there  with  the  stake  through  her  heart. 

"  What  a  lonesome  place  !  "  said  Barbara,  under  her 
breath,  as  the  two  stood  looking,  awo-struck,  at  the  grave. 
"When  I  die,  I  should  like  to  be  buricv.  here  !  " 

Vivia,  mute  with  the  solemn  feeling  one  always  has 
when   near   the   dead,  did  not  answer,   but  stood  look 
ing  down  at  the  quiet  grave,  and  the  black  marble  slab 
above  it. 

The  silence  was  broken  in  a  blood-chilling  manner. 

"Barbara!  " 

Both  girls  recoiled  with  horror,  for  the  voic^  came  from 
the  grave  at  their  feet — clear,  and  sweet,  and  low,  but 
distinct,  and  unmistakably  from  the  grave  ! 

' '  Victoria  I  " 

The  voice  again — the  same  low,  sweet,  clear  voice 
from  beneath  their  feet  I 

The  faces  of  both   listeners   turned   white  with  fear. 

The  voice  from  the  grave  came  up  on  the  still,  summer 
air,  solemn  and  sweet,  once  more  : 

•*  From  death  one  has  been  saved  by  the  other ;  and  in 
the  days  to  come,  one  shall  perish  through  the  other. 
Barbara,  be  warned  !     Victoria,  beware  !  " 

It  ceased.  A  blackbird,  perched  on  an  overhanging 
branch,  sat  up  its  chirping  song,  and  the  voice  of  Made- 
mpiselle  Jeannette  was  heard  in  the  distance,  crying  out 
for  Miss  Vivia.  It  broke  the  spell  of  terror,  and  both  girls 
fled  from  the  spot. 

"Oh,  Barbara  !  what  was  that  ? "  cried  Vivia,  her  very 
lips  white  with  fear. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Barbara,  trying  to  hide  her  own 
terror.  **  It  came  from  the  grave.  It  couldn't  be  the  dead 
nun,  could  it  ?     Is  that  place  haunted  ? " 

"No — yes — I  don't  know.  I  think  Tom  said  there  was 
a  ghost  seen  there.     Don't  tell  Jeannette ;  she  will  only 


J' 


1^ '     . 


!m 


If  'i'j 


:;'5        I 


104 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


% 

1 

t 

■  !'   1  ! 

'  ,^i 

r 

'■;■ 

i 

I; 

•if 

,     '! 

1, 

L'i 

(      ■ 

laugh  at  us.  But  I  will  never  go  there  as  long  as  I 
live ! " 

"What  made  you  stay  away  so  long,  Mademoiselle 
Vivia?  Your  grandmother  was  afraid  you  were  lost 
again." 

"  Let  us  hurry,  then.  I  want  grandmamma  to  see  you, 
Barbara.     So  make  haste." 

The  great  hall  door  of  the  old  mansion  was  wide-open 
as  they  came  near,  and  Lady  Agnes  herself  stood  in  the 
hall,  talking  to  the  colonel  and  Mr.  Sweet. 

Vivia  ran  breathlessly  in,  followed  by  Barbara,  who 
glanced  around  the  carved  and  pictured  hall,  and  up  the 
sweeping  stairc  ise,  with  its  gilded  balustrade,  in  grand, 
careless  surprise. 

"  Here  is  Barbara,  grandmamma  !  here  is  Barbara  !  "  was 
Vivia's  cry,  as  she  rr  shed  in.      "I  knew  bhe  would  come. " 

'*  Barbara  is  the  best  and  bravest  little  girl  in  the  world  !  " 
said  Lady  Agnes,  glancing  curiously  at  the  bright,  fear- 
less face,  and  holding  out  two  jeweled,  tapered  fingers. 
'*  I  am  glad  to  see  Barbara  here,  and  thank  her  for  what 
she  has  done  with  all  my  heart." 

Mr.  Sweet,  standing  near,  with  his  pleas^tit  smile  on  his 
face,  stepped  forward,  hat  in  hand. 

"Good-afternoon,  my  lady.  Good-afternoon,  Miss 
Victoria.  Our  little  Barbara  will  have  cause  to  bless  the 
day  that  has  brought  her  such  noble  friends." 

With  a  tune  on  his  lips,  and  the  smile  deepening  inex- 
plicably, he  went  out  into  the  great  portico,  down  the  broad 
stone  steps  guarded  by  two  crouching  lions,  and  along  the 
great  avenue,  sha J ''ng  off  the  golden  sunshine  with  its 
waving  trees. 

Under  one  of  them  he  paused,  with  his  hat  still  in  his 
hii/  -I  the  sunlight  sifting  through  the  trees,  making  his 
i 'V'.relry  and  his  yellow  hair  flash  back  its  radiance,  and 
Icoked  around.  The  grand  old  mansion,  the  sweeping 
ist'v  of  park  and  lawn,  and  terrace  and  shrubbery,  and 
glade  and  woodland,  mimic  lake  and  radiant  rose  garden, 
Swiss  farm-house  and  ruined  convent,  all  spread  out  be- 
fore him,  bathed  in  the  glory  of  the  bright  September  sun. 

The  tune  died  away,  and  the  smile  changed  to  an  ex- 
ultant laugh. 

"And  to  think,"  said  Mr.  Sweet,  turning  away,  "that 
one  day  all  this  shall  be  mine  I " 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


los 


CHAPTER    XIII. 


THE     MAY     QUEEN. 


I  its 

his 

his 

and 

ping 

and 

den, 

be- 
sun. 

ex- 

that 


Such  a  morning  as  the  first  of  May  was  !  Had  the  good 
people  of  Cliftonlea  sent  an  express  order  to  the  clerk  of 
the  weather  to  manufacture  for  them  the  fairest  day  he 
could  possibly  turn  out,  they  could  not  have  had  a  more  per- 
fectly unexceptionable  one  than  that.  Sun  and  sky  were 
so  radiantly  bright,  they  fairly  made  you  wonder  to  think 
of  them.  Ceylon's  spicy  breezes  could  not  have  been 
warmer  or  spicier  than  that  blowing  over  Cliftonlea  Com- 
mon. The  grass  and  the  trees  were  as  green  as,  in  many 
other  parts  of  England,  they  would  have  been  in  July. 
The  cathedral  bells  were  ringing  until  they  threatened 
to  crack  and  go  mad  with  joy  ;  and  as  for  the  birds,  they 
were  singing  at  such  a  rate  that  their  music  shamed  that 
of  the  bells,  and  the  little  chirpers  had  been  hard  and  fast 
at  it  since  five  o'clock.  All  the  town  were  hurrying,  with 
eager  anticipation,  toward  the  common — a  great  square, 
carpeted  with  the  greenest  possible  grass,  besprinklec' 
with  pink  and  white  daisies,  and  shaded  by  tall  English 
poplars,  where  the  Cliftonlea  brass-band  was  already 
banging  away  at  the  "  May  Queen." 

All  business  was  suspended  ;  for  May  Day  had  been 
kept  from  time  immemorial  a  holiday,  and  the  Lady  of 
Castle  Cliffe  always  encouraged  it,  by  ordering  her  agent 
to  furnish  a  public  dinner  and  supper,  and  no  end  of  ale, 
on  each  anniversary.  Then,  besides  the  feasting  and 
drinking,  there  was  the  band,  and  dancing  by  the  young 
people,  until  the  small  hours,  if  they  chose.  And  so  it 
was  no  wonder  that  May  Day  was  looked  for  months 
before  it  came,  and  was  the  talk  months  afterward,  and 
that  numberless  matches  were  made  there,  and  that  the 
May  Queen  was  the  belle  of  all  the  succeeding  year,  and 
the  envy  of  all  the  young  ladies  of  the  town. 

The  cathedral  bells  had  just  begun  to  chime  forth  the 
national  anthem ;  the  crowd  of  townsfolk  kept  pouring 


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WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


in  a  long  stream  through  High  Street  toward  the  common, 
when  a  slight  sensation  was  created  by  the  appearance 
of  two  young  men,  to  whom  the  women  courtesied  and 
the  men  took  off  their  hats.  Both  bore  the  unmistakable 
stamp  of  gentlemen,  and  there  was  an  indefinable  some- 
thing— an  indescribable  air — about  them  that  told  plainer 
than  words  they  were  not  of  the  honest  burghers  among 
whom  they  walked. 

One  of  these,  upon  whom  the  cares  of  life  and  a  green 
shooting-jacket  appeared  to  sit  easily,  was  remarkable 
for  his  stature — being,  like  Saul,  the  son  of  Kish,  above 
the  heads  of  his  fellow-men — with  the  proportions  of  a 
grenadier,  and  the  thews  and  sinews  of  an  athlete.  On 
an  exuberant  crop  of  short,  crisp,  black  curls  jauntily 
sat  a  blue  Scotch  bonnet,  with  a  tall  feather.  On  the 
herculean  form  was  the  green  hunting-jacket,  tightened 
round  the  waist  with  a  yellow  belt,  and  to  his  knees  came 
a  pair  of  tall  Wellington  boots.  This  off-hand  style  of 
costume  suited  the  wearer  to  perfection,  which  is  as  good 
as  saying  his  figure  was  admirable,  and  suited,  too,  the 
laughing  black  eyes  and  dashing  air  generally.  A 
mustache,  thick  and  black,  became  well  the  sunburned 
and  not  very  handsome  face  ;  and  he  held  his  head  up, 
and  talked  and  laughed  m  a  voice  sonorous  and  clear,  not 
to  say  loud  as  a  bugle-blast. 

The  young  giant's  companion  was  not  at  all  like  him — 
nothing  near  so  tall,  though  still  somewhat  above  the 
usual  height,  and  much  more  slender  of  figure — but  then 
he  had  such  a  figure  !  One  of  those  masculine  faces,  to 
which  the  adjective  beautiful  can  be  applied,  and  yet  re- 
main intensely  masculine.  A  light,  summer  straw-hat  sat 
on  the  fair  brown  hair,  and  shaded  the  broad,  pale  brow 
— the  dreamy  brow  of  a  poet  or  a  painter — large  blue  ey  es, 
so  darkly  blue  that  at  first  you  would  be  apt  to  mistake 
them  for  black,  shaded  as  they  were  by  girl-like,  long, 
sweeping  lashes — wonderful  eyes,  in  whose  clear,  calm 
depths  spoke  a  deathless  energy,  fiery  passion,  amid  all 
their  calm,  and  a  fascination  that  his  twenty-four  years  of 
life  had  proved  to  their  owner  few  could  ever  resist.  The 
clear,  pale  complexion,  the  straight  delicate  features, 
somewhat  set  and  haughty  in  repose,  were  a  peculiarity 
of  his  race,  and  known  to  many  in  London  and  Sussex 
as  the  "Cliffe  face."    His  dress  was  the  most  faultless  of 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


10' 


morning  costumes,  and  a  striking  contrast  to  the  easy 
style  of  his  companion's,  with  whom  he  walked  arm-in- 
arm ;  patting,  now  and  then,  with  the  other  hand,  which 
was  gloved,  the  head  of  a  great  Canadian  wolf-hound  trot- 
ting by  his  side.  Both  young  gentlemen  were  smoking  ; 
but  the  tall  wearer  of  the  green  jacket  was  carrying  his 
cigar  between  his  finger  and  thumb,  and  was  holding 
forth  volubly. 

"Of  course  they  v/ill  have  a  May  Queen!  They 
always  have  had  in  Cliftonlea,  from  time  immemorial ; 
and  1  believe  the  thing  is  mentioned  in  Magna  Charta. 
If  you  had  not  been  such  a  heathen,  Cliffe,  roaming  all 
your  life  in  foreign  parts,  you  would  have  known  about 
it  before  this.  Ah  !  how  often  have  I  danced  on  the 
green  with  the  May  Queen,  when  I  was  a  guileless  little 
shaver  in  roundabouts ;  and  what  pretty  little  things 
those  May  Queens  were  !  If  you  only  keep  your  eye 
skinned  to-day,  you  will  see  some  of  the  best-looking  girls 
you  ever  saw  in  your  life." 

"I  don't  believe  it.  ' 

"Seeing  is  believing,  and  you  just  hold  on.  The  last 
time  I  was  here  Barbara  Black  was  the  May  Queen  ;  and 
what  a  girl  that  was,  to  be  sure  !  Such  eyes  ;  such  hair  ; 
such  an  ankle  ;  such  an  instep  ;  such  a  figure  ;  such  a 
face!  Just  the  sort  of  thing  you  fellows  always  go  mad 
about.  1  believe  I  was  half  m  love  with  her  at  the  time, 
if  I  don't  greatly  mistake. 

"  I  don't  doubt  it  in  the  least.  It's  a  way  you  have," 
said  his  companion,  whose  low,  refined  tones  contrasted 
forcibly  with  the  vigorous  voice  of  the  other.  "How 
long  ago  is  that  .'*  " 

"Four  years,  precisely." 

"Then,  take  my  word  for  it,  Barbara  Black  is  homely 
as  a  hedge-fence  by  this  time.  Pretty  children  always 
grow  up  ugly,  and  vice  versa." 

"  Perhaps  so,"  said  the  giant  in  the  green  jacket,  and 
tightening  his  belt.  "Well,  it  may  be  true  enough  as  a 
general  rule  ;  for  I  was  uncommonly  ugly  when  a  child, 
and  look  at  me  now  !  But  I'll  swear  Barbara  is  an  ex- 
ception ;  for  she  is  the  prettiest  girl  I  ever  saw  in  my  life 
— except  one.  Only  to  think,  being  four  years  absent 
from  a  place,  and  then  not  to  find  it  the  least  changed 
when  you  come  back. " 


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WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


*' Isn't  it?  I  know  so  little  of  Cliftonlea,  that  its  good 
people  might  throw  their  houses  out  of  the  windows  with- 
out my  being  anything  the  wiser.  What  a  confounded 
din  that  band  makes,  and  what  a  crowd  there  is  !  I  hate 
crowds  ! " 

"They'll  make  way  for  us,"  said  the  young  giant; 
and,  true  to  his  prediction,  the  dense  mob  encircling  the 
common  parted  respectfully  to  let  the  two  young  men 
through. 

"  Look  there,  Cliffe,  that's  the  Maypole,  and  that  flower- 
wreathed  seat  underneath  is  the  Queen's  throne, — God 
bless  her !  See  that  long  arch  of  green  boughs  and 
flowers  ;  that's  the  way  Her  Majesty  will  come.  And 
just  look  at  this  living  sea  of  eager  eyes  and  faces  !  You 
might  make  a  picture  of  all  this,  Sir  Artist." 

"And  make  my  fortune  at  the  Exhibition.  It's  a  good 
notion,  and  I  may  try  it  some  day,  when  I  have  time. 
Who  is  to  be  the  May  Queen  this  year  ?  " 

"Can't  say.     There  she  comes  herself !  " 

The  place  where  the  young  men  stood  was  within  the 
living  circle  around  the  boundary  of  the  common,  in  the 
center  of  which  stood  a  tall  pole,  wreathed  with  ever- 
greens and  daisies,  and  surmounted  by  a  crown  of  artifi- 
cial flowers,  made  of  gold  and  silver  paper,  sparkling  in 
the  sunshine  like  a  golden  coronet.  From  this  pole  to 
the  opposite  gate  were  arches  of  evergreen,  wreathed 
with  wild  flowers,  and  under  this  verdant  canopy  was  the 
May  Queen's  train  to  enter.  The  militia  band,  in  their 
scarlet  and  blue  uniforms,  stood  near  the  May  Queen's 
throne,  playing  now  "Barbara  Allen";  and  the  police- 
men were  stationed  here  and  there,  to  keep  the  crowd 
from  surging  in  until  the  royal  procession  entered.  This 
common,  it  may  be  said,  parenthetically,  was  at  the  ex- 
tremity of  the  town,  and  away  from  all  dwellings  ;  but 
there  were  two  large,  gloomy-looking  stone  buildings 
within  a  few  yards  of  it — one  of  them  the  court-house, 
the  other  the  county  jail — as  one  of  the  young  gentlemen 
had  reason  to  know  in  after  days,  to  his  cost. 

There  was  a  murmur  of  expectation  and  a  swaying  of 
the  crowd;  the  band  changed  from  "Barbara  Alien  "  to 
the  national  anthem,  and  the  expected  procession  began 
to  enter.  Two  by  two  they  came ;  the  pretty  village 
girls  all  dressed  in  translucent  white,  blue  sashes  round 


WEDDED  FOR  FIQUE. 


109 


their  waists,  and  wreaths  of  flowers  on  their  heads  ;  blonde 
and  brunette,  pale  and  rosy,  stately  and  petite — on  they 
came,  two  and  two,  scattering  flowers  as  they  went,  and 
singing  "  God  Save  the  Queen." 

It  was,  indeed,  a  pretty  sight,  and  the  artist's  splendid 
eyes  kindled  as  they  looked ;  but  though  many  of  the 
faces  were  exceedingly  handsome,  the  May  Queen  had 
not  come  yet.  Nearly  thirty  of  this  gauzy  train  had  en- 
tered and  taken  their  stand  round  the  throne,  looking  in 
their  swelling  amplitude  of  snowy  gauze  ten  times  that 
number,  when  a  mighty  shout  arose  unanimously  from 
the  crowd,  announcing  the  coming  of  the  fairest  of  them 
all — the  Queen  of  May. 

Over  the  flower-strewn  path  came  a  glittering  equipage 
the  queen  of  the  Fairies  might  herself  have  ridden  in  ; 
a  tiny  chariot  dazzling  with  gilding,  vivid  with  rose-red 
paint,  and  wreathed  and  encircled  with  flowers,  drawn  by 
six  of  the  snow-clad  nymphs,  the  Queen's  maids  of  honor. 
By  its  side  walked  two  children,  neither  more  than  six 
years  old,  each  carrying  a  flag,  one  the  Union  Jack  of  old 
England,  the  other  a  banner  of  azure  silk,  with  the  name 
"Barbara"  shining  in  silver  letters  thereon.  And  within 
the  chariot  rode  such  a  vision  of  beauty,  in  the  same 
misty  white  robes  as  her  subjects,  the  blue  sash  round 
the  taper  waist,  and  a  wreath  of  white  roses  round  the 
stately  head,  such  a  vision  of  beauty  as  is  seen  oftener 
in  the  brains  of  poets  and  artists  than  in  real  life,  and  heard 
of  oftener  in  fairy  tales  than  seen  in  this  prosy,  every-day 
world.  But  the  radiant  vision,  with  a  coronet  of  shining 
dark  braids  twisted  round  and  round  the  stately  head — 
Nature's  own  luxuriant  crown — with  the  lustrous  dark  eyes, 
flushed  cheeks  and  smiling  lips,  was  no  myth  of  fairy  tale, 
or  vapory  vision  of  poetry,  but  a  dazzling  flesh-and-blood 
reality  ;  and  as  she  stepped  from  her  gilded  chariot,  fairest 
where  all  were  fair,  "  queen-rose  of  the  rose-bud  garden  of 
girls,"  such  a  shout  went  up  from  the  excited  crowd,  that  the 
thunder  of  brass  band  and  drum  was  drowned  altogether 
for  fully  ten  minutes.  "God  Save  the  Queen!"  "Long 
Live  Queen  Barbara  !  "  rang  and  rang  again  on  the  air,  as 
if  she  were,  indeed,  a  crowned  queen,  and  the  tall  stately 
white  figure,  blender  and  springy  as  a  young  willow,  bent 
smilingly  right  and  left,  while  the  band  still  banged  out  its 
patriotic  tunes,  and  the  crowd  shouted  themselves  hoarse. 


II  i 


no 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


4 


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*ii 


"  Great  Heaven  !  "  exclamed  Cliffe,  *'  what  a  perfectly 
beautiful  face !  " 

The  young  giant  in  shooting-jacket  did  not  answer. 
From  the  first  moment  his  eyes  had  fallen  upon  her,  his 
face  had  been  going  through  all  the  phases  of  emotion  that 
any  one  face  can  reasonably  go  through  in  ten  minutes' 
time.  Astonishment,  admiration,  recognition,  doubt,  and 
delight,  came  over  it  like  clouds  over  a  summer  sky  ;  and 
as  she  took  her  seat  under  the  flower-bedecked  Maypole, 
spreading  out  her  gauzy  skirt  and  azure  ribbons,  he  broke 
from  his  companion  with  a  shout  of  "  It  is  !  "  and  springing 
over  the  intervening  space  in  two  bounds  he  was  kneeling 
at  her  feet,  raising  her  hand  to  his  lips,  and  crying  in  a 
voice  that  rang  like  a  trumpet-tone  over  the  now-silent 
plain  : 

' '  Let  me  be  the  first  to  do  homage  to  Queen  Barbara  !  " 

"  Hurrah  for  Tom  Shirley,"  said  a  laughing  voice  in  the 
crowd,  and  "  Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  hurrah  for  Tom  Shirley  !  '* 
shouted  the  multitude,  catching  the  infection,  until  the  tall 
Maypole,  and  the  ground  under  their  feet,  seemed  to  ring 
with  the  echo.  It  was  all  so  sudden  and  so  stunningly 
loud,  that  the  May  Queen,  half  startled,  snatched  away  her 
hand,  and  looked  round  her,  bewildered,  and  even  Tom 
Shirley  was  startled,  for  that  giant  gazed  round  at  the  yell- 
ing mob,  completely  taken  aback  by  his  enthusiastic  re- 
ception. 

"What  the  deuce  do  the  good  people  mean  ?  Have 
they  all  gone  mad,  Barbara,  or  do  they  intend  making  a 
May  Queen  of  me,  too  ? " 

"They  certainly  ought,  if  they  have  any  taste  !  "  said 
the  girl.  But  do  let  me  look  at  you  again,  and  make  sure 
that  it  is  really  Tom  Shirley  !  " 

Tom  doffed  his  Scotch  cap  and  made  her  a  courtly  bow. 

"Certainly  !  Your  majesty  may  look  as  much  as  you 
like.  You  won't  see  anything  better  w^orth  looking  at,  if 
you  search  for  a  month  of  Sundays.     I  promise  you  that !  '* 

The  young  lady,  trying  to  look  grave,  but  with  a  little 
smile  rippling  round  her  red  lips,  began  at  the  toes  of  his 
Wellington  boots,  scrutinized  him  carefully  to  the  topmost 
kink  of  his  curly  head,  and  recommencing  there,  got  down 
to  the  soles  of  his  boots  again,  before  she  was  prepared  to 
vouch  for  his  identity. 

"It  is  yourself,  Tom  !    Nobody  else  in  the  village 


1! 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


Ill 


was  ever  such  a  Brobdingnagian  as  you  1  If  you  had 
only  come  a  little  earlier,  you  might  have  saved  them  tht 
trouble  of  seeking  for  a  Maypole  ;  and  just  fancy  how 
pretty  you  would  look,  twined  round  with  garlands  of 
roses,  and  a  crown  of  silver  lilies  on  your  head  !  ' 

Mr.  Tom  drew  himself  up  to  the  full  extent  of  his  six 
feet  four  inches,  and  looked  down  on  the  dark,  bright, 
beautiful  face,  smiling  up  at  him,  under  the  white  roses. 

' '  Well,  this  is  cool  !  Here,  after  four  years'  absence, 
during  which  I  might  have  been  dead  and  buried,  for  all 
she  knew,  instead  of  welcoming  me,  and  falling  on  my 
neck,  and  embracing  me  with  tears,  as  any  other  Christian 
would  do,  she  commences,  the  moment  she  claps  her 
eyes  on  me,  calling  me  names,  and  loading  me  with  op- 
probrium, and " 

"Oh,  nonsense,  Tom!  You  know  I  am  real  glad  to 
see  you  !  "  said  Barbara,  giving  him  her  hand,  carelessly, 
"and  as  to  falHng  on  your  neck,  I  would  have  to  climb 
up  a  ladder  or  a  fire-escape  first,  to  do  it.  But  there,  the 
band  is  playing  the  'Lancers,'  and  everybody  is  staring 
at  us  ;  so  do,  for  goodness  sake,  ask  me  for  a  dance,  or 
something,  and  let  us  get  out  of  this  !  " 

"With  all  the  pleasure  in  life,  Miss  Black,"  said  Tom, 
in  solemn  politeness.  "May  I  have  the  honor  of  your 
hand  for  the  first  set  ?     Thank  you  !     And  now — but  first, 

Where's Oh,  yes,  here  he  is.     Miss  Black,  permit  me 

to  present  this  youthful  relative  of  mine,  Mr.  Leicester 
Cliffe,  of  Cliffewood,  late  of  everywhere  in  general  and 
nowhere  in  particular — an  amiable  young  person  enough, 
of  rather  vagabondish  inclination,  it's  true,  but  I  don't 
quite  despair  of  him  yet.     Mr.  Cliffe,  Miss  Black." 

"You  villain  !  I'll  break  every  bone  in  your  body  !  " 
said  Mr.  Cliffe,  in  a  savage  undertone  to  his  friend,  before 
turning  with  a  profound  bow  to  Barbara,  whose  handker- 
chief hid  an  irrepressible  sm.ile.  "Miss  Black,  I  trust, 
knows  Mr.  Tom  Shirley  too  well  to  give  any  credit  to 
anything  he  says.  May  I  beg  the  honor  of  your  hand 
for " 

"You  may  beg  it,  but  you  won't  get  it,"  interrupted 
Tom.  "She  is  mine  for  the  next  set,  and  as  many  more 
as  I  want — ain't  you,  Barbara  ? " 

"  For  the  second  then,  Miss  Black  ?  I'll  not  leave  you 
a  sound  bone  from  head  to  foot !  "  said  Mr.CIiffe,  change- 


I 


112 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


1  '    f        I 


t'  I 


f     -W 


r  >: 


I 


\  « 


'\\:\\>A 


ing  his  voice  with  startling  rapidity,  as  he  addressed  first 
the  lady  and  then  the  gentleman. 

"With  pleasure,  sir,"  said  Barbara,  who  was  dying  to 
laugh  outright. 

' '  And  Mr.  Leicester  Cliffe,  favoring  her  with  another  bow, 
with  a  menacing  glance  at  his  companion,  walked  away. 

"  Sic  transit  gloria  mundi!"  They're  waiting  for  us, 
Barbara,"  said  Tom,  making  a  grimace  after  his  relative. 

And  Barbara  burst  out  into  a  silvery  and  uncontrollable 
fit  of  laughter. 

"Tom,  I'm  ashamed  of  you  !  And  is  that  really  Mr. 
Leicester  Cliffe  ? " 

"It  really  is.     What  do  you  know  about  him,  pray  ?  " 

"Nothing.  There!  he  is  our  vis-h-vis — actually  with 
Caroline  March.  I  have  had  the  honor  of  seeing  him 
once  before  in  my  life — that  is  all  !  " 

"Where?" 

"There  is  a  picture  at  Cliffewood,  in  the  hall,  of  a  pretty 
little  boy,  wiih  long  yellow  cuils  and  blue  eyes,  that  I 
have  looked  at  many  a  time — first,  with  you  and  Miss  Vic, 
and  ufterward  when  I  went  there  alone  ;  and  I  saw  him 
on  several  occasions  when  he  was  here  six  years  ago." 

"Six  years  ago?  Why,  that  was  just  after  you  came 
to  Lower  Cliffe  at  first ;  and  I  was  here  then,  and  I  don't 
remember  anything  about  it." 

"  No,  I  know  you  don't ;  but  the  way  of  it  was  simple 
enough.  You,  and  Miss  Vic,  and  Lady  Agnes,  and 
Colonel  Shirley,  and  Miss  Margaret,  all  leit  the  castle  three 
months  after  I  caine  to  live  here — you  to  go  to  Cam- 
bridge, Miss  Vic  to  return  to  her  French  convent,  Miss 
Margaret  to  go  to  a  London  boarding-school,  and  Lady 
Agnes  and  the  colonel  to  go  to  Belgium.  Do  you  com- 
prehend? " 

"Slightly." 

"Well,  let  us  take  our  place  then,  for  the  quadrille  is 
about  to  commence.  Sir  Roland  was  going  away,  too, 
to  Syria — was  it  not  ?  And  Mr.  Leicester  came  down  from 
Oxford  to  spend  a  week  or  two  before  his  departure  ;  and 
I  saw  him  almost  every  day  then,  and  we  were  excellent 
friends,  I  assure  you." 

"Were  you  ?  That's  odd  ;  for  when  I  was  speaking  of 
you  ten  minutes  ago,  he  seemed  to  know  as  little  about 
you,  as  I  do  about  the  pug-faced  lady. " 


ressed  first 

}  dying  to 

Dtherbow, 
fed  away, 
ng  for  us, 
s  relative, 
•ntrollable 

•eally  Mr. 

,  pray  ? " 
ally  with 
eing  him 


>f  a  pretty 
es,  that  I 
Miss  Vic, 
saw  him 
5  ago." 
i^ou  came 
d  I  don't 

as  simple 
nes,  and 
stle  three 
to  Cam- 
3nt,  Miss 
ind  Lady 
'^ou  com- 


idrille  is 
^ay,  too, 
wn  from 
lire ;  and 
excellent 

aking  of 
le  about 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


113 


Barbara  smiled  and  shrugged  her  pretty  shoulders. 

"Out  of  sight,  out  of  mind  1  Monsieur  has  forgotten 
me!" 

"Oh,  the  barbarian  I  As  if  any  one  in  his  proper 
senses  could  ever  see  you  and  forget  you  !  Ever  since 
we  parted,"  said  Tom,  laying  his  hand  with  pathos  on 
the  left  side  of  his  green  jacket,  "  you  have  been  my  star 
by  day  and  my  dream  by  night — the  sun  of  my  existence 
and  the  cherished  idol  of  my  young  affections.  Don't  be 
laughing  ;  it's  truth  I'm  telling  !  " 

"  Bah  !  don't  be  talking  nonsense  !  Do  you  remember 
the  night  you  nearly  broke  your  neck,  and  I  saved  you 
and  your  two  cousins  from  the  Demon's  Tower  ?  " 

*'That  was  six  years  ago — a  long  stretch  to  look  back  ; 
but  as  if  I  could  forget  anything  you  ever  had  a  hand  in, 
Barbara  !  " 

"  I'll  box  your  ears,  sir,  if  you  keep  on  making  an  idiot 
of  yourself !  You  remember  I  was  up  the  next  day  at  the 
castle,  and  enjoyed  the  pleasure  of  the  first  chat  I  ever 
had  with  you  ;  and  we  had  a  terrific  quarrel  that  raged 
for  at  least  three  days  ?  " 

"  I  remember.  I  told  you  that  when  I  grew  up  and 
married  Vic,  you  should  be  my  second  wife,  and  that 
whichever  I  found  suited  me  best  should  be  first  sultana. 
Well,  now,  Barbara,  to  make  amends  ;  suppose  you  be- 
come first,  and " 

"Stuff!  Tell  me  where  you  dropped  from  so  unex- 
pectedly to-day  ? " 

"From  Cliffewood,  the  last  place.  I  came  down  with 
Leicester  in  last  evening's  train."  . 

"Are  you  going  to  remain  ? " 

"No,  indeed.     I'm  off  again  to-night." 

*  *  A  flying  visit,  truly.  Did  you  come  for  a  coal,  Mr.  Tom, 
and  want  to  get  back  to  London  with  it  before  it  goesout  ?  " 

"Not  exactly.  I  came  to  stir  up  that  superannuated 
old  dame,  Mrs.  Wilder,  with  the  intelligence  that  my  lady 
and  suite  are  to  arrive  this  day  month  at  the  castle." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?     Are  all  coming  ? " 

"All.  My  lady,  the  colonel,  Miss  Shirley,  and  Miss 
Margaret  Shirley,  not  to  mention  a  whole  drove  of 
visitors,  who  are  expected  down  later  in  the  summer." 

"And  Miss  Vic — is  she  well  and  as  pretty  as  ever  ?  " 

"Pretty  !  I  believe  you  !  '  She's  all  my  heart  painted 
S 


114 


WEDDED  FOR  Pi  QUE. 


*  i !  . ;  M 


•Ji 


!*:■  II 


!'  I 


I 


h'j 


I  ri 


her,  she's  divine,'  and  her  heart  it  is  no  other's,  and  I'm 
bound  it  shall  be  mine  !  Did  you  hear  she  had  been 
presented  at  court  ?  " 

"I  read  it  in  the  papers,  with  a  full  account  of  her 
diamonds,  and  moire  antique,  and  Honiton  lace,  and  the 
sensation  she  created,  and  everything  else.  I  suppose 
she  has  been  having  a  very  gay  winter  ?  "  said  Barbara, 
with  a  little  envious  sigh. 

' '  Stunning  !  It's  her  first  season  out,  and  she  has  made 
a  small  regiment  of  conquests  already.  You  ought  to  see 
her,  Barbara,  in  her  diamonds  and  lace  looking  down  on 
her  multitude  of  adorers  like  a  princess,  and  eclipsing  all 
the  reigning  belles  of  London.  One  of  her  lovers — a  poor 
devil  of  a  poet,  who  was  half  mad  about  her — christened 
her  the  *  Rose  of  Sussex ; '  and,  upon  my  word,  she  is  far 
more  widely  known  by  that  title  than  as  Miss  Shirley. " 

"Oh  !  "  said  Barbara,  drawing  in  her  breath  hard,  "  if  I 
only  were  she  !  " 

"If  you  were,"  said  Tom,  echoing  the  sigh,  " I  would 
wish  you  to  possess  a  little  more  heart.  With  all  her 
beauty,  and  her  smiles,  and  her  coquetry,  she  is  as  fin- 
ished a  coquette  as  ever  broke  a  heart  The  girl  is  made 
of  ice.  You  might  kneel  down  and  sigh  out  your  soul  at 
her  feet,  and  she  would  laugh  at  you  for  your  pains  !  " 

"She  must  have  changed  greatly,  then,  since  she  left 
here  six  years  ago. " 

"Changed  !  There  never  was  such  change — improve- 
ment, perhaps,  some  people  would  call  it ;  but  I  can't  see 
it.  She  used  to  be  Vic  Shirley,  then,  but  now  she  is  Miss 
or  Mademoiselle  Genevieve  ;  and  with  all  that  satin  and 
flummediddles  floating  around  her,  a  fellow  can  only 
look  on  and  admire  from  a  respectful  distance.  Have 
you  never  seen  her  since  .?  " 

"Never!  But,"  said  Barbara,  with  a  sudden  crimson- 
ing, that  might  have  been  pride  or  any  other  feeling, 
deepening  the  rose-hue  on  her  cheek,  "she  wrote  me 
one  letter  I  " 

"  How  generous  !  And  you  saved  her  life,  too  !  What 
was  it  about  ? " 

" It  was  a  year  ago,"  said  Barbara,  in  a  low  tone  ;  "a 
few  months  before  she  left  school,  and  the  colonel  brought 
it  from  Faris.  Arriong  other  things  it  contained  an  ac- 
count of  an  interview  she  had  had  with  some  of  the  digni- 


V5J 


A 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


«»5 


s,  and  I'm 
had  been 

nt  of  her 
%  and  the 
suppose 
Barbara, 

has  made 
?ht  to  see 
down  on 
ipsing  all 
s — a  poor 
hristened 
she  is  far 
lirley. " 
ird,  "if  I 

'  I  would 
1  all  her 
is  as  fin- 
I  is  made 
ir  soul  at 
ains  ! " 
she  left 

improve- 
can't  see 
e  is  Miss 
atin  and 
an  only- 
Have 

;rimson- 

feeling, 

rote  me 

\     What 

lie  ;  "a 

brought 

an  ac- 

e  digni- 


m 


I"'  " 

'a 


tarics  of  the  government,  who  were  on  a  visit  at  the 
convent  school ;  they  gave  her  a  costly  present,  and 
complimented  her  in  the  most  cordial  manner." 

"Oh,  I've  heard  of  all  tl»c.i,"  said  Tom,  with  an  im- 
patient shrug.  "Lady  Agnes  has  taken  care  to  bore  her 
dear  five  hundred  friends  with  it  at  least  a  thousand 
times!" 

"Now,  Tom,  tell  me  truly,  arc  you  going  to  marry 
your  cousin?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Tom,  with  a  groan.  "I  wish  to 
Heaven  I  could  ;  but  it  doesn't  depend  on  me,  unfor- 
tunately. She  is  encircled  from  weeks  end  to  week's 
end  with  a  crowd  of  perfumed  Adonises,  who  always  flut- 
ter around  heiresses  like  moths  round  a  lighted  candle  ; 
and  girls  are  such  inconceivable  fools  that  they  are  always 
sure  to  prefer  one  of  those  nicely  winged  moths  to  a 
straightforward,  honest,  sensible,  practical  man.  Miser- 
able little  popinjays  !  I  could  take  the  best  of  them  by 
the  waistband  and  lay  them  low  in  the  dust,  any  da^ .  if 
I  liked  !  " 

"  You  great  big  monster  !  Then  the  great  bear  has 
actually  lost  his  heart !  " 

"Great  bear!  You  are  all  alike;  and  her  pet  name 
for  me  is  Ursa  Major,  too  !  " 

"But  you  are  really  in  love,  Tom  ? " 

"I  don't  know  that,  either  !  "  groaned  Tom.  "  Some- 
times I  love  her — sometimes  I  hate  her  !  and  then,  she  is 
provoking  enough  to  make  a  mee'ng-house  swear.  Oh, 
there's  old  Sweet,  the  lawyer,  as  yellow  and  smiling  as 
ever,  dallying  along  with  Leicester,  and  I  suppose  I  must 
give  you  up  to  him  for  one  set,  at  least  !  By  the  way, 
how  is  the  governor  and  the  old  lady  ?  " 

' '  If  you  mean  my  father  and  grandmother,  they  are  as 
well  as  usual." 

"Well,  that's  jolly — beg  your  pardon!  Ursa  Major 
has  bruinish  ways  of  talking,  and  they  never  could  knock 
any  manners  into  me  at  Cambridge.  Oh,  I  see  something 
nice  over  there,  and  I'm  going  to  ask  her  for  the  next 
dance." 

Off  went  Tom,  like  a  rocket,  and  up  came  suave  and 
graceful  Mr.  Leicester  Cliffe,  with  the  smiling  a^^ent  of 
Lady  Agnes  Shirley. 

"I  believe  I  have  the  honor  of  the  next,  lady  fair,"' 


i    ^. 


ii6 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


I '   I 


I 


i>  \ 


said  the  young  gentleman.  "You  and  Tom  appear  to 
prefer  talking  to  dancing,  if  one  may  judge  from  £.p- 
pearances. " 

Barbara  laughed. 

*  *  Tom  and  I  are  old  friends,  Mr.  Cliffe,  and  when  old 
friends  meet,  they  have  a  thousand  things  to  say  to  each 
other." 

"  '  Mr.  Cliffe  !  '  and  you  used  to  call  me  Leicester  when 
I  was  here  before. " 

"Oh,  but  you  were  a  boy  then,"  said  Barbara,  with 
another  gay  laugh  and  vivid  blush. 

"Well,  just  think  I'm  a  boy  again,  won't  you?  Bar- 
bara and  Leicester  are  much  pleasanter  and  shorter  than 
Miss  Black  and  Mr.  Cliffe." 

Barbara  did  not  speak. 

"  If  I  were  a  lady,"  was  her  thought,  "would  he  talk 
to  me  like  this  ? "  And  all  the  fierce,  indomitable  pride, 
asleep,  but  not  dead  within  her  rose  up,  and  sent  a  flush 
to  her  cheek  and  a  fire  to  her  eye  and  a  sudden  uplifting 
of  the  haughty  little  head. 

"Six  years  is  a  long  time,  Mr.  Cliffe,"  she  said,  coldly  ; 
"  and  half  an  hour  ago  you  had  forgotten  me." 

"  Miss  Barbara,  I  have  sinned  in  doing  so,  and  have 
been  repenting  of  it  ever  since.  I  accuse  myself,"  he 
said,  penitently,  "  of  forgetting  the  little  wild-eyed  gypsy 
who  used  to  sit  on  my  knee  and  sing  for  me  '  Lang-syne  ; ' 
but  when  I  forget  the  May  Queen  of  to-day,  I  shall  forget 
all  things  earthly." 

There  was  a  low,  mocking  laugh  behind  them,  and 
Barbara  turned  round.  She  had  not  laughed  at  his  speech 
as  she  had  done  at  similar  speeches  from  Tom  Shirley, 
and  her  dark  face  was  glowing  like  the  heart  of  a  June 
rose  when  her  eye  fell  on  the  laugher.  But  it  was  only 
Mj  Sweet  talking  to  a  vivacious  little  damsel,  and  not 
paying  any  attention  to  them  at  all. 

The  heir  of  Cliffewood  and  the  fisherman's  daughter 
took  their  station  at  the  head  of  the  quadrille,  and  hun- 
dreds of  eyes  turned  curiously  upon  them.  The  gulf 
between  herself  and  Tom  Shirley  was  not  so  very  wide, 
for  Tom  was  nearly  as  poor  as  she  ;  but  the  heir  of  Cliffe- 
wood— that  was  quite  another  thing. 

"What  a  handsome  couple,"  more  than  one  had  said, 
in  a  stage  whisper. 


I 


.« 


\\ 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


"7 


appear  to 
from  f.p- 


when  old 
y  to  each 

5ter  when 

ara,   with 

u  ?     Bar- 
rier than 


i  he  talk 
>le  pr/de, 
it  a  flush 
uplifting- 

,  coldly  ; 

nd  have 
3elf,"  he 
d  gypsy 
r-syne ; ' 
II  forget 

;rn,  and 
3  speech 
Shirley, 
f^  a  June 
as  only 
md  not 

aughter 
id  hun- 
lie  gulf 
T  wide, 
Xliffe- 

d  said, 


And  a  handsome  couple  they  were.  The  young  artist, 
with  his  dreamy  brow,  his  splendid  eyes,  his  fair  brown 
hair,  his  proud,  characteristic  face,  and  princely  bearing ; 
the  girl  crowned  with  roses,  and  crowned  with  her  beauty 
and  pride,  as  a  far  more  regal  diadem  ;  her  dress  of  gauzy 
white,  a  duchess  or  a  peasant  might  have  worn  with 
equal  propriety,  looking  a  lady  to  her  finger-tips.  The 
whisper  reached  thcni  as  they  moved  away  at  the  con- 
clusion of  the  dance,  she  leaning  lightly  on  his  arm,  and 
he  turned  to  her,  with  a  smile. 

' '  Did  you  hear  that  ?  They  call  you  and  me  '  a  couple, ' 
Barbara. " 

"Village  gossips  will  make  remarks,"  said  the  young 
lady,  with  infinite  composure;  "and  over  in  that  field 
there  are  a  horse  and  an  ox  coupled.  Noble  and  inferior 
animals  should  find  their  own  level." 

"You  are  pleased  to  be  sarcastic." 

"Not  at  all.  Where  have  you  been  all  these  years, 
Mr.  Cliffe  ?  " 

"Over  the  world.  I  made  the  grand  tour  when  I  left 
Oxford  four  years  ago  ;  then  I  visited  the  Kast,  and,  last 
of  all,  I  went  to  America.  This  day  six  weeks,  I  was  in 
New  York." 

"America!  Ah!  I  would  like  to  go  there.  It  has 
been  my  dream  all  my  life." 

"And  why?" 

She  did  not  speak.  Her  eyes  were  downcast,  and  her 
cheeks  crimson. 

"  Will  your  majesty  not  tell  your  most  faithful  subject," 
he  said,  laughing  in  a  careless  way,  that  reminded  her  of 
Colonel  Shirley  ;  and,  indeed,  his  every  look,  and  tone, 
and  smile  reminded  her  of  the  absent  Indian  officer,  and 
made  her  think  far  more  tenderly  of  Mr.  Leicester  Cliffe 
than  she  could  otherwise  have  done,  for  Barbara  had  the 
strongest  and  strangest  affection  for  the  handsome  colonel. 

"Why  would  you  like  to  go  to  America  ? "  he  reiterated, 
looking  at  her  curiously. 

She  raised  her  eyes,  flashing  with  a  strange  fire,  and 
drew  her  hand  hastily  from  his  arm. 

"Because  all  are  equals  there.  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Cliffe, 
I  am  engaged  to  Mr.  Sweet  for  this  quadrille." 

He  looked  after  her  with  a  strange  smile,  a°  she  moved 
Bway  treading  the  ground  as  if  she  were  indeed  a  queen. 


I 


Ji8 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


\ 


t !  ;^^ 


"You  will  sing  another  tune  some  day,  my  haughty 
little  beauty,"  sa'd  he  to  himself,  "or  my  power  will  fail 
for  once." 

The  clay  passed  delightfully.  There  was  the  dinner  on 
the  grass,  and  more  dancing,  and  long  promenades  ;  and 
the  May  Queen's  innumerable  admirers  uttered  curses  not 
loud  but  deep,  to  find  that  Mr,  Leicester  Cliffe  devoted 
himself  to  her  all  day,  as  if  she  had  been  the  greatest 
lady  in  the  land.  To  contest  any  prize  against  such  a 
rival  was  not  to  be  thought  of ;  and  when  supper  was 
over,  and  the  stars  were  out.  and  the  young  I\Iay  moon 
rose  up,  the  heir  of  Cliffewood  walked  home  with  the 
cottage  beauty  on  his  arm.  Tom  Shirley  had  taken  the 
evening  train  for  London,  and  there  were  none  to  tell  tales 
out  of  school. 

The  sea  lay  asleep  in  the  moonlight,  and  the  fishing- 
boats  danced  over  the  silvery  ripples  under  the  hush  of 
the  solemn  stars. 

"Oh,  what  a  night,"  exclaimed  Barbara.  "What  a 
moon  that  is,  and  what  a  multitude  of  stars.  It  seems  to 
me,"  with  a  light  laugh,  "they  never  were  so  many  or  so 
beautiful  before." 

"  They're  all  beautiful,"  said  Leicester,  speaking  of  them 
and  looking  at  her.  "But  I  have  seen  a  star  brighter 
than  any  there  to-day.     Fairest  Barbara,  good-night." 

Those  same  slandered  stars  watched  Mr.  Leicester 
ClifTe  slowly  riding  homeward  in  their  placid  light,  and 
watched  him  fall  asleep  with  his  head  on  his  arm,  and  the 
same  queer  half-smile  on  his  lips,  to  dream  of  Barbara. 


1 


! 


•  f 


WEDDED  FOR  FIQC/R, 


119 


haughty 
!r  will  fail 

dinner  on 
idcs ;  and 
:urses  not 
J  devoted 
!  greatest 
st  such  a 
ppcr  was 
fay  moon 

with  the 
taken  the 

tell  tales 

e  fishing- 
!  hush  of 

'What  a 
seems  to 
my  or  so 

of  them 

brighter 

ht." 

eicester 

ht,  and 

'ind  the 

jara. 


/  • 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


THE    WARNING. 


Sir  Roland  Cliffe  sat  in  his  dining-room  at  Cliffewood 
— a  pleasant  room,  with  a  velvet  carpet  of  crimson  and 
white  on  the  floor  ;  crimson  satin  curtains  draping  the 
French  window:-  that  opened  on  a  sunny  sweep  of  lawn  ; 
pictures  on  the  satin-panelod  walls — pretty  pictures  in 
gilded  frames,  of  fruit  and  the  chase,  with  green  glimpses 
of  Indian  jungles,  American  prairies,  and  Canadian  forests 
— the  latter,  the  work  of  Sir  Roland's  heir.  Sir  Roland 
himself  sat  in  a  great  arm-chair  of  crimson  velvet,  with 
gilded  back  and  arms — a  corpulent  gentleman  of  fifty, 
much  addicted  to  tiiat  gentlemanly  disease,  the  gout — be- 
fore an  antique  mahogany  table,  draped  with  the  snow- 
iest of  damask,  strewn  with  baskets  of  silver  filligree, 
heaped  with  oranges,  grapes,  and  nuts,  and  flanked  with 
sundry  cut-glasss  decanters  of  ruby  port  and  golden 
sherry. 

An  open  letter  lay  on  the  table,  in  a  dainty  Italian  hand, 
that  began,  "  My  Dear  IJrother  ;  "  and  while  the  May  sun- 
shine and  breezes  floated  blandly  through  the  crimson 
curtains,  Sir  Roland  sipped  his  pale  sherry,  munched  his 
wahiuts  and  grapes,  and  ruminated  deeply.  He  had  sat 
quite  alone  over  his  dessert  making  his  meditations,  when 
right  in  the  middle  of  an  unusually  profound  one  came 
the  sound  of  a  light,  quick  step  on  the  terrace  without, 
the  sweet  notes  of  a  clear  voice  singing.  "The  Lasso' 
Gowrie,"  and  the  next  minute  the  door  was  thrown  open, 
and  Mr.  Leicester  Cliffe  walked  in,  with  his  huge  Cana- 
dian wolf-dog  by  his  side. 

The  young  gentleman  wore  a  shooting  costume,  and 
had  a  gun  in  his  hand  ;  and  the  sea-side  sun  and  wind 
seemed  to  agree  with  him  well,  for  there  was  a  glow  on 
his  pale  cheek,  and  a  dancing  light  in  his  luminous 
eyes. 


-I  !i  .    "" 


i\r 


.  I 


It 


i1 


i !;  ;;!' 


i  , 


I'll 


it 


■  ■!; 


!'l . 


n 


:.  1 


!.  1 


in- 


'■! 


X20 


tt 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


Late, 


lal, 


as  usual,"  was  his  salutation,  as  he  stood  his 
gun  in  a  corner  and  flung-  his  slouch-bat  on  a  sofa.  "  I 
intended  to  be  the  soul  of  punctuality  to-day  ;  but  the 
time  goes  here  one  doesn't  know  how,  and  I  only  found 
out  it  was  getting  late  by  feeling  half-famished.  Hope  I 
haven't  kci>t  you  waiting?" 

"  I  have  not  waited,"  said  Sir  Roland.  "  Ri"g  the 
bclK  and  tliey'll  bring  your  dinner.  Been  gunning,  I  see? 
I  hope  with  more  success  than  usual  ?  " 

*M  am  sorry  to  say  not.  Loup  and  I  have  spent  cur 
day  and  bagged  nothing." 

"Very  shy  game  yours  must  be,  I  think." 

"  It  is,"  said  Leicester  with  emphasis. 

"Well,  you'll  have  the  chance  to  aim  at  game  of  an- 
other sort,  soon — high  game,  too,  my  boy.  Here  is  a 
letter  from  Lady  Agnes." 

"Indeed." 

"And  it  contains  a  pressing  invitation  for  you  to  go  up 
to  London  and  be  present  at  a  ball  her  ladyship  gives  in 
a  few  days." 

"  Docs  it  ?     I  won't  go." 

"  You  will  go.     Listen." 

"Tell  Leicester  to  be  sure  to  come,  Roland,  I  would 
not  have  him  absent  for  the  world.  It  is  about  the  last 
ball  of  the  season,  and  he  will  meet  scores  of  old  friends, 
who  will  be  anxious  to  sec  him  after  all  these  years  of 
heathenish  wanderings.  And  you  know  there  is  another 
and  still  stronger  reason,  my  dear  brother,  for  if  the  pro- 
posed alliance  between  Victoria  and  him  ever  becomes 
an  established  fact,  I  am  extremely  desirous  to  have  it 
settled,  and  the  engagement  publicly  made  known  before 
we  leave  London.'" 

Sir  Roland  laid  down  the  letter  at  this  passage,  and 
looked  complacently  across  the  table  at  his  step-son  ;  and 
that  young  gentleman,  who  had  been  paying  profound 
attention  to  his  dinner,  and  very  little  to  her  lady's  letter, 
now  raised  an  eye  haughty  and  indignant. 

"The  proposed  alliance!  What  does  Lady  Agnes 
mean  by  that  ?  " 

"  Precisely  what  she  says,  my  dear  boy.  Pass  those 
oranges,  if  you  please. " 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


121 


"That  I'm  to  marry  her  granddaughter,  Miss  Victoria 
Shirley  ? " 

*' Exactly!  Oh,  you  needn't  fire  up  like  that.  The 
matter  is  the  simplest  thing  in  the  world.  Lady  Agnes 
and  I  have  intended  you  for  one  another  ever  since  little 
Vic  tirst  came  from  France." 

"Much  obliged  to  you  both;  at  the  same  time,  I  beg 
to  decline  the  honor." 

"  Vou  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  It  is  the  most 
reasonable  and  well-assorted  match  in  the  world.  You 
are  both  young,  both  good-looking,  both  of  the  same 
family,  and  the  two  estates  will  join  admirably,  and 
make  you  one  of  the  richest  landed  gentlemen  in  Engx 
land." 

"Unanswerable  arguments,  all.  Still,  permit  me  to 
decline. " 

"  And  why,  pray.?"  inquired  Sir  Roland,  slightly  rais* 
ing  his  voice. 

"My  dear  sir,"  said  the  young  gentleman,  filling  with 
precision  his  glass  with  sherry,  "1  am  infinitely  obliged 
to  her  ladyship  and  yourself  for  selecting  a  wife  for  me 
in  this  most  royal  and  courtly  fashion,  but  still,  strange 
Qs  it  may  appear,  I  have  always  had  the  vague  notion 
that  I  should  like  to  select  the  lady  myself.  It  seems  a 
little  unreasonable,  1  allow,  but  then  it's  a  whim  I  have." 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense  !  What  would  the  boy  have?  If 
you  want  riches,  she  is  the  richest  heiress  in  the  kingdom, 
and  if  you  want  beauty,  you  may  search  the  three  king- 
doms and  not  see  anything  like  her." 

"I  don't  kn.ow  about  that.      I  have  never  seen  her." 

"  You  have  seen  her  picture,  then." 

"I  have  looked  at  a  picture  over  there  in  the  old  hall, 
of  a  very  pink-and-white  damsel,  with  round  blue  eyes 
and  colorless  hair,  and  as  insipid,  I  am  ready  to  make 
my  affidavit,  as  a  mug  of  milk  and  water.  I  don't  fancy 
the  small-beer  style  of  young  ladies  ;  and  as  for  beauty — 
cream  candy  and  strawberries  are  very  nice  in  their  way, 
but  nobody  can  live  on  them  forever." 

"Speak  plain  English,  sir,  and  never  mind  cream 
candy.  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  refuse  the  hand  of  Miss 
Shirley  ?  " 

"Really,  Sir  Roland,  you  have  the  most  point-blank 
way  of  putting  questions.     Does  Miss  Shirley  know  that 


123 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


'   f 


!  ; ' 


< 


she  is  to  remain,  like  'a  stationer's  parcel,  to  be  left  till  I 
call  for  her  ?  Or,  if  that  is  not  plain  enough  English,  is 
she  a  party  to  this  ^ffair  ? " 

"  She  knows  nothing  about  it ;  but  it  will  be  made 
known  to  her  as  soon  as  you  arrive  in  London." 

"And  do  you  suppose,  sir,  that  she,  a  beauty,  an  heir- 
ess, a  belle,  moving  in  the  first  circles,  with  all  the  best 
men  of  the  day  at  her  feet,  will  consent  to  be  made  a 
puppet  of,  and  jump  into  my  arms  the  moment  I  open 
them?  The  day  has  passed  for  such  things,  sir,  and 
English  girls  are  too  spunky  to  be  traded  like  Eastern 
slaves. " 

"  She  is  no  English  girl.  She  is  French  by  birth  and 
education  ;  French  to  the  core  of  her  heart ;  and  being 
French,  she  is  too  well  used  to  this  style  of  thing  to 
dream  for  a  moment  of  opposing  the  will  of  her  guardians. 
The  girl  is  what  you  are  not — as  obedient  as  if  trained  in 
a  military  school.  A  girl  with  such  French  notions  as 
she  has,  would  almost  marry  a  live  kangaroo,  if  her 
friends  desired  her. " 

"  And  that  in  itself  is  another  objection.  Miss  Shirley, 
as  you  say,  is  French.  So  was  her  mother.  Would  you 
have  a  Cliffe  marry  the  daughter  of  a  French  actress  ?  " 

"I'll  break  your  head  with  this  decanter  if  you  insinuate 
such  a  thing  again  !  "  said  Sir  Roland,  furiously  ;  for  there 
was  still  a  tender  spot  in  his  heart  sacred  to  the  memory 
of  Vivia.  "  Miss  Shirley  is  altogether  too  good  for  such 
a  worthless  scape-grace  as  yourself.  And  I  vow,  sir,  I 
have  half  a  mind  to  disinherit  you,  and  make  Tom 
Shirley  my  heir.  He  would  marry  her  the  moment  he 
was  asked,  without  the  least  objection." 

Leicester  laughed  at  the  threat. 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it  in  the  least,  sir.  But  you  and  Lady 
Agnes  are  the  most  artless  conspirators  ever  I  heard  o£ 
Now,  when  you  wanted  us  to  unite  our  fortunes,  your 
plan  was  to  have  brought  us  together  in  some  romantic 
and  unusual  way,  and  warned  us,  under  the  most  fright- 
ful penalties,  not  to  dream  of  ever  being  anything  but  ac- 
quaintances. The  consequence  would  have  been,  a 
severe  attack  of  the  grand  passion,  and  an  elopement  in 
a  fortnight.  I  compliment  you,  sir,  by  saying  that  you 
have  no  more  art  than  if  you  were  five  instead  of  fifty 
years  old." 


fi 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


"3 


o  be  left  till  I 
jh  English,  is 

irill   be   made 
Ion." 

auty,  an  heir- 
L  all  the  best 
o  be  made  a 
•ment  I  open 
Ings,  sir,  and 
like   Eastern 

by  birth  and 
t ;  and  being 
of  thing  to 
ler  guardians. 
is  if  trained  in 
:h  notions  as 
ngaroo,  if  her 

Miss  Shirley, 
Would  you 
h  actress  ? " 
you  insinuate 
sly  ;  for  there 
o  the  memory 
rood  for  such 

I  vow,  sir,  I 
d  make  Tom 
2  moment  he 


you  and  Lady 
r  I  heard  of. 
ortunes,  your 
)me  romantic 
most  fright- 
ything  butac- 
ave  been,  a 
elopement  in 
ing  that  you 
stead  of  fifty 


;i 


i 


"We  don't  want  to  be  artful.  The  matter  is  to  be 
arranged  in  the  most  plain  and  straightforward  manner 
— nothing  deceitful  or  underhand  about  it.  If  you  choose 
to  marry  Miss  Shirley,  and  gratify  the  dearest  wish  of 
my  heart,  I  shall  be  grateful  and  happy  all  my  life  ;  it 
you  prefer  declining,  well  and  good.  Vic  will  get  a 
better  man,  and  I  shall  know  how  to  treat  my  dutiful 
step-son." 

"  Is  that  meant  for  a  threat,  Sir  Roland.?  " 

"You  may  construe  it  in  any  way  you  choose,  Mr. 
Leicester  Cliffe,  but  I  certainly  have  counted  without 
hesitation  on  your  consent  in  this  matter  for  the  last  six 
years." 

"  But,  my  dear  sir,  don't  talk  as  if  the  affair  all  rested 
with  me.     Miss  Shirley  may  be  the  first  to  decline," 

"  I  tell  you  she  will  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  Miss  Shir- 
ley will  obey  her  natural  guardians,  and  marry  you  any 
moment  you  ask  her." 

"  A  most  dignified  position  for  the  young  lady,"  said 
Leicester,  with  a  slight  shrug  and  smile,  as  he  proceeded 
with  solicitude  to  light  his  cigar.  "Of  course,  her  father 
knows  all  about  this  }  " 

"  Her  father  knows  nothing  of  it  as  yet.  He  is  one  of 
those  men  who  set  their  faces  against  anything  like 
coercion,  and  who  would  not  have  his  daughter's  wishes 
forced  in  the  slightest  degree." 

"  I  admire  his  good  sense.  And  suppose  I  consent  to 
tis  step,  when  shall  I  start  for  London  ?  " 

"To-morrow  morning,  in  the  first  train.  There  is  no 
time  to  be  lost,  if  you  wish  to  arrive  for  the  ball." 

"And  the  first  thing  I  have  to  do  upon  getting  there,  I 
suppose,  is  to  step  up  to  the  young  lady,  hat  in  hand,  and 
say,  •  Miss  Shirley,  your  grandmother  and  my  father  have 
agreed  that  we  should  marry.  I  don't  care  a  snap  for 
you,  but  at  their  express  command  I  have  come  here 
to  make  you  my  wife.'  How  do  you  like  the  style  of 
that,  sir  ?  " 

"You  may  propose  any  way  you  please,  so  that  you 
doit.  She  is  a  sensible  girl,  and  will  understand  it.  You 
will  go,  then  .?  " 

"Here,  Loup  !"  said  the  young  man,  holding  out  a 
bunch  of  grapes  to  his  dog,  by  way  of  answer;  "get 
down   off  that   velvet  ottoman  directly.     What  do  you 


m 


m 
u* 


1 


ill 


I 


i  i 


;! 


i 

1  ' 
1 

!  , 

1   ■ 

1 

]'\-  i  •,  1 

1, 


i;:|i 

l-;i! 


'  '  rn 


1 :     ^'1 


124 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


suppose  our  worthy  housekeeper  will  say  when  she  finds 
the  tracks  of  your  dirty  paws  on  its  whiteness." 

"I  knew  all  along  that  you  would  go, "  said  Sir  Roland, 
filling  his  glass.  "  Here's  her  health  in  old  port,  and 
success  to  you  both.  The  only  astonishing  thing  is,  how 
you  could  have  remained  here  so  long.  When  you  got 
here  first,  two  weeks  ago,  you  told  me  before  you  had 
been  five  minutes  in  the  house  that  you  would  die  of 
ennui  to  stay  here  a  week  ;  but  two  of  them  have  passed 
now,  and  here  you  are,  a  permanent  fixture,  and  not  a 
word  of  ennui.  To  be  sure  there  are  amusements  :  you 
can  go  out  shooting  every  morning  ;  and  return  every 
evening  empty-handed  ;  you  can  go  out  sailing,  there 
are  plenty  of  boats  in  Lower  Cliffe,  and  there  are  plenty 
of  agreeable  fishermen,  too,  with  handsome  daughters." 

It  might  have  been  the  reflection  of  the  curtains — the 
young  gentleman  was  standing  by  the  window  smoking, 
and  contemplating  the  scenery — but  his  face  turned 
crimson. 

''There  is  one  particularly,"  went  on  Sir  Roland,  dryly. 
"Black,  is  the  man,  1  think — very  fine  fellow,  I  have  no 
doubt,  with  a  tall,  dark-haired  daughter.  Barbara  is  a 
nice  little  girl,  always  was,  and  will  teach  you  to  row 
and  catch  lobsters  to  perfection,  very  likely  ;  but  still  Mr. 
Leicester  Cliffe  has  other  duties  to  fulfill  in  life  besides 
those  two.  Take  care,  my  dear  boy,  and  when  you 
reach  London,  don't  talk  too  much  of  the  fisherman's  girl 
to  the  heiress  of  Castle  Cliffe." 

The  young  man  had  been  standing  with  his  foot  on 
the  window-sill  during  *his  harangue ;  now  he  stepped 
out  on  the  lawn. 

"I  will  go  to  London  to-morrow,  sir,"  he  said  quietly ; 
and  was  hid  from  view  by  the  screening  curtains. 

Flinging  away  his  cigar,  he  strode  around  to  the  stables 
with  his  dog  at  his  heels,  and  without  waiting  to  change 
his  dress,  mounted  his  horse,  and  in  five  minutes  after 
was  dashing  along  in  the  direction  of  Lower  Cliffe.  A 
horse  in  that  small  village  would  have  created  a  sensa- 
tion ;  Mr.  Leicester  never  brought  one  there,  and  he  did 
not  now.  Leaving  it  in  the  marshes  in  the  care  of  a  boy, 
he  walked  down  the  straggling  path  among  the  rocks, 
and  halted  at  the  door  of  Mr.  Black's  cottage. 

"Come  in  I  "  called  a  sharp  voice  in  answer  to  his  low 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


"S 


she  finds 

r  Roland, 
port,  and 
g  is,  how 
you  got 
you  had 
d  die  of 
e  passed 
d  not  a 
its  ;  you 
n  every 
ig,  there 
e  plenty 
^hters." 
ins — the 
moking, 
!    turned 

1,  dryly, 
have  no 
ira  is  a 

to  row^ 
still  Mr. 

besides 
en  you 
an  s  girl 

foot  on 
stepped 

|uietly  ; 

stables 

change 

3s  after 

ffe.     A 

sensa- 

he  did 

a  boy, 

rocks, 

lis  low 


knock  ;  and  obeying  the  peremptory  order,  he  did  walk 
in,  and  found  himself  face  to  face  with  old  Judith.  No 
one  else  was  visible,  and  the  old  lady  sat  upon  the  broad 
hearth,  propped  up  against  the  chimney-piece,  with  her 
knees  drawn  up  to  her  chin,  embraced  by  her  clasped 
fingers,  and  blowing  the  smoke  of  a  small,  black  pipe  in 
her  mouth  up  the  chimney. 

"  If  you  want  our  Barbary,  young  gentleman,"  said 
Judith,  the  moment  her  sharp  eyes  rested  on  him,  "she's 
not  here  :  she  went  out  ten  minutes  ago,  and  I  rather 
think  if  you  go  through  the  park  gates  and  walk  smart, 
you'll  catch  up  to  her." 

"Thank  you.  What  a  jolly  old  soul  she  is!"  said 
Leicester,  apostrophizing  the  old  lady,  as  he  turned  out 
again  and  sprang  with  long  strides  over  the  road,  through 
the  open  gates,  and  along  the  sweeping  path  leading  to 
the  castle.  As  he  went  on,  he  caught  sight  of  a  fluttering 
skirt  glancing  in  and  out  through  the  trees,  and  in  two 
minutes  he  was  beside  the  tall,  giriish  figure,  walking 
under  the  waving  branches  with  a  free,  quick,  elastic 
step. 

Barbara,  handsome  even  in  her  plain  crimson  merino, 
trimmed  with  knots  of  black  velvet  and  black  lace  ;  with 
no  covering  on  the  graceful  head,  but  the  shining  braids 
of  dark  hair  twisted,  and  knotted,  and  looped,  as  if  there 
was  no  way  of  disposing  of  their  exuberance,  and  with 
two  or  three  rosy  daisies  gleaming  through  their  darkness, 
looked  up  at  him  half-surprised,  half-pleased. 

"  Why,  Leicester,  what  in  the  world  has  brought  you 
here  ? " 

"My  horse  part  of  the  way — I  walked  the  rest." 

"Don't  be  absurd!  When  you  went  away  half  an 
hour  ago,  I  did  not  expect  to  see  you  again  in  Lower 
Cliffe  to-day." 

"Neither  did  I  ;  but  it  seems  I  am  going  away,  and  it 
struck  me  I  should  like  to  say  good-bye. " 

Barbara  started  and  paled  slightly. 

' '  Going  away  !     Where  ?  " 

"To  London." 

"Oh,  is  that  all?  And  how  long  are  you  going  to 
stay  .? " 

"  Only  a  week  or  two.  The  Shirleys  are  coming  back 
then,  and  I'm  to  return  with  them. " 


:   I 


i 


'I'l 


f  ;  :^ 


'I        1  ■ 


'    - 


V     I    ■ 


III 


ill. 


126 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 
tone  startled  her,  and  she  looked  at   him 


What    are    you    looking    so 

Come 


His  grave 
searchingly. 

"Is    anything  wrong? 
solemn  about  ? " 

"Barbara,  I  have  two  or  three  words  to  say. 
along  till  we  get  a  seat." 

They  walked  along,  side  by  side,  in  silence,  and  turn- 
ing into  a  by-path  of  yew  and  elm,  they  came  in  sight  of 
the  Nun's  Grave,  lying  still  and  gloomy  under  their  shade. 

"This  is  just  the  place,"  said  Leicester;  "and  here  is 
a  seat  for  you,  Barbara,  on  this  fallen  tree." 

But  Barbara  recoiled. 

"Oh,  not  here!  it  is  like  a  tomb — it  is  a  tomb,  this 
place  !  " 

"Nonsense  !  What  is  the  matter  with  you?  What  are 
you  looking  so  pale  for  ?  " 

"Nothing,"  said  Barbara,  recovering  herself  with  a 
clight  laugh;  "only  I've  not  been  here  for  six  years. 
Miss  Shirley  was  .vith  me  then,  and  something  startled 
us  both,  and  made  us  afraid  of  the  place. " 

"  Ah  ! "  his  face  darkened  slightly  at  the  name.  "Noth- 
ing will  harm  you  while  I  am  near.     Here  is  a  seat." 

She  seated  herself  on  the  trunk  of  an  old  tree,  covered 
with  moss,  and  he  threw  himself  on  the  grave,  with  his 
arm  on  the  black  cross,  and  looked  up  in  the  beautiful 
questioning  face. 

"Well,    Barbara,    do   you   know   what   I've   come   to 

"  You've  told  me  already.  Good-bye  !  "  said  Barbara, 
plucking  the  daisies,  with  a  ruthless  hand,  from  the  grave, 
without  looking  up. 

"  And  something  else — that  I  love  you,  Barbara  !  " 

She  looked  up  at  him  and  broke  into  a  low,  mocking 
laugh. 

"  Do  you  not  believe  me  ?  "  he  asked,  quietly. 

"No!" 

**  Pleasant,  that,  and  why  ?  " 

"Because,  sir,"  she  said,  turning  upon  him  o  sud- 
denly and  fiercely  that  he  started,  "such  words  from  you 
to  me,  snoken  in  earnest,  would  be  an  insult !  " 

"An  insult !     Barbara,  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  !  " 

"You  don't?  It  is  plain  enough,  nevertheless.  You 
are  the  son  of  a  baronet,  and  the  heir  of  Cliffewood ;  I  am 


ti 


ed  at  him 

ooking    so 

ay.     Come 

and  turn- 
in  sight  of 
leir  shade, 
id  here  is  ' 

omb,  this 

What  are 

f  with  a 
>ix  years, 
g:  startled 

.  "Noth- 
ieat." 
,  covered 
with  his 
beautiful 

come  to 

Barbara, 
te  grave, 

a!" 
mocking 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


127 


;o  sud- 
"om  you 

mean  ! " 
3.  You 
i;  lam 


VvL 


the  daughter  of  a  fisherman,  promoted  to  that  high  estate 
from  being  a  rope-dancer  !  Ask  yourself  then,  what  such 
words  from  you  to  me  can  be  but  the  deadliest  of  in- 
sults !  " 

"Barbara,  you  are  mad,  mad  with  pride!  Stay  and 
hear  me  out." 

"I  am  not  mad  !  I  will  not  stay  I  "  she  cried,  passion- 
ately, rising  up.  "I  did  think  you  were  my  friend,  Mr. 
Cliffe  ;  I  did  think  you  respected  me  a  little.  I  never 
thought  I  could  fall  so  low,  in  your  eyes,  as  this. " 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  caught  both  her  hands,  as 
she  was  turning  away,  with  a  passionate  gesture,  and 
holding  her  firmly,  looked  in  her  eyes  with  a  smile. 

"Barbara,  what  are  you  thinking  of?  Are  yon  crazy? 
I  love  you  with  all  my  heart,  and  some  day,  sooner  or 
later,  I  will  make  you  Lady  Clifife." 

"You  will  make  me  nothing  of  the  kind,  sir.  Release 
me,  I  command  you,  for  I  will  not  stay  here  to  be  mocked. " 

"It  is  my  turn  to  be  obstinate  now,  I  will  not  let  you 
go,  and  I  am  not  mocking,  but  in  most  desperate  earnest. 
Look  at  me,  Barbara,  and  read  the  truth  for  yourself" 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  the  handsome,  smiling  face  bend- 
ing over  her,  and  read  there  truth  and  honor  in  glance 
and  smile. 

"Oh,  Leicester,"  she  passionately  cried,  "do  not  de- 
ceive me  now,  or  my  heart  will  break  !  I  have  had  wild 
dreams  of  my  own,  but  never  before  anything  so  wild  as 
this.  How  can  you  care  for  one  so  far  beneath  you  ; 
and,  oh  !  what  will  Sir  Roland  and  Lady  Agnes  say,  if  it 
be  true  ? " 

"  What  they  please !     I  am  my  own  master,  Barbara  1 " 

"  But  Sir  Roland  may  disinherit  you." 

"Let  him.  I  have  my  own  fortune,  or  rather  my 
mother's ;  and  the  day  I  was  of  age  I  came  into  an  in- 
come of  some  five  thousand  a  year.  So,  my  proud  little 
Barbara,  if  my  worthy  step-father  sees  fit  to  disinherit 
me,  you  and  I,  I  think,  can  manage  to  exist  on  that." 

"Oh,  Leicester,  can  you  mean  all  this?  " 

"Much  more  than  this,  Barbara.  And  now  let  me 
hear  you  say  you  love  me." 

She  lifted  up  to  his  a  face  transformed  and  pale  with 
intense  joy ;  but,  ere  she  could  answer,  a  voice,  solemn 
And  sweet,  rose  from  the  grave  under  their  feet : 


128 


WEDDED  FOR  PiQUE. 


'  !  '' 


i 


:!i 


t'  : 


"  Barbara,  beware  !  " 

The  words  she  would  have  uttered  died  out  on  Bar- 
baras  lips,  and  she  started  back  with  a  suppressed  shriek. 
Leicester,  too,  recoiled,  and  looked  round  him  in  wonder. 

"What  w?s  that?  Where  did  that  voice  come  from, 
Barbara  ? " 

"From  the  grave,  I  think!"  said  Barbara,  turning 
white. 

Leicester  looked  at  her,  and  seeing  she  was  perfectly 
in  earnest,  broke  out  into  a  fit  of  boyish  laughter. 

' '  From  the  grave  !  Oh,  what  an  idea  !  But,  Barbara, 
I  am  waiting  to  hear  whether  or  not  I  am  to  be  an 
accepted  lover." 

Again  the  radiant  look  came  over  Barbara's  face,  again 
she  turned  to  answer,  and  again  arose  the  voice,  so  solemn 
and  so  sad : 

"  Beware,  Barbara  !  " 

"This  is  some  devilish  trick!"  exclaimed  Leicester, 
passionately  dashing  off  through  the  trees.  "Some  one 
is  eavesdropping  ;  and  if  I  catch  him  I'll  smash  every 
bone  in  his  body." 

Barbara,  white  as  a  marble  statue,  and  nearly  as  cold, 
stood,  looking  down  in  horror  at  the  Nun's  Grave,  until 
Leicester  returned,  flushed  and  heated,  after  his  impetuous 
and  fruitless  search. 

"I  could  see  no  one,  but  I  am  convinced  some  one 
has  been  listening,  and  hid,  as  I  started  in  pursuit.  And 
now,  Barbara,  in  spite  of  men  and  demons,  tell  me  that 
you  love  me." 

She  held  out  both  her  hands. 

"  Oh,  Leicester,  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart  I  " 

In  her  tone,  in  her  look,  there  was  something  so 
strangely  solemn  that  he  caught  the  infection,  and  rais- 
ing the  proffered  hands  to  his  lips,  he  said  : 

"  My  own  Barbara  I  When  I  prove  false  to  you,  I  pray 
God  that  I  may  die  !  " 

"Amen  !  "said  Barbara,  with  terrible  earnestness,  while 
from  her  dark  eyes  there  shot  for  a  moment  a  glance  so 
fierce,  that  he  half  dropped  her  hands  in  his  surprise. 

"But  I  shall  never  be  false!  "  he  said,  recovering  him- 
self, and  believing  at  the  moment  what  he  said  was  true  ; 
"true  as  the  needle  to  the  North  Star  shall  I  be  to  the 
lady  I  love.     See  !  I  shall  be  romantic  for  once,  and  make 


I    ;|i 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


129 


this  old  elm  a  memorial,  that  will  convince  you  it  is  not 
all  a  dream  when  I  am  gone.  It  has  stood  hundreds  of 
years,  perhaps,  and  may  stand  hundreds  more,  as  a  sym- 
bol of  our  deathless  faith." 

Half-laughingly,  half-earncstly,  he  took  from  his  pocket 
a  dainty  penknife,  and  with  one  sharp,  blue  blade  began 
carving  their  united  initials  on  the  bark  of  the  hoary  old 
elm,  waving  over  the  Nun's  Grave,  "  L.  S.  C,"  and  un- 
derneath ' '  \\.  B. , "  the  whole  encircled  by  a  carved  wreath  ; 
and  as  he  finished,  a  great  drop  of  rain  fell  on  his  glitter- 
ing blade.  He  looked  up,  and  saw  that  the  whole  sky 
had  blackened. 

"There  is  going  to  be  a  storm,"  he  exclaimed.  "  And 
how  suddenly  it  has  arisen  !  Come,  Barbara,  we  will 
scarcely  have  time  to  reach  the  cottage  before  it  breaks." 

Barbara  stopped  for  a  moment  to  kiss  the  wetted  initials  ; 
and  then  is  the  rain  drops  began  to  fall  thick  and  fast, 
she  flew  along  the  avenue,  keeping  up  with  his  long  man- 
strides,  and  in  ten  minutes  reached  the  cottage,  panting 
and  out  of  breath. 

Old  Judith  stood  in  the  doorway  looking  for  her,  so 
there  was  no  chance  of  sentimental  leave-taking  ;  but 
looks  often  do  wonderfully  in  such  cases,  and  two  pairs 
of  eyes  embraced  at  the  cottage  door,  and  said  good- 
bye. 

The  lightning  leaped  out  like  a  two-edged  sword  as 
Barbara  hastened  to  her  room  and  sat  down  by  the  win- 
dow. This  window  commanded  a  view  of  the  sea  and 
the  marshes — the  one  black,  and  turbid,  and  moaning  ; 
the  other,  blurred  and  sodden  with  the  rushinsr  rain. 
And  "Oh,  he  will  be  out  in  all  this  storm  !  "  cried  Bar- 
bara's heart,  as  she  watched  the  rain  and  the  lightning, 
and  listened  to  the  rumbling  thunder,  until  the  dark  even- 
ing wore  away,  and  was  lost  in  the  darker  and  stormier 
night.  Still  it  rained,  still  the  lightning  flashed  and  thun- 
der pealed,  and  the  sea  roared  over  the  rocks,  and  still 
Barbara  sat  at  the  window,  with  her  long  hair  streaming 
around  her,  and  her  soul  full  of  a  joy  too  intense  for 
sleep. 

With  the  night  passed  the  storm,  and  up  rose  the  sun, 
ushering  in  a  new-born  day  to  the  restless  world.  Bar- 
bara was  up  as  soon  as  the  sun,  and  walking  under  the 
dripping  boughs,  along  the  drenched  grass  to  the  place 


\ 


«3o 


WEDDED  FOR  P/QVS. 


of  tryst.  But  the  lightning  had  been  before  her  ;  for  there, 
across  the  Nun's  Grave,  lay  the  old  v-jlm — the  emblem  of 
their  endless  love — a  blackened  and  blasted  ruin. 


t    •  I 


'  CHAPTER  XV. 

THE   SHADOW   IN    BLACK. 

Old  Judith,  when  not  sitting  in  the  corner,  smoking, 
had  a  habit  of  standing  in  the  doorway,  taking  an  obser- 
vation of  all  that  passed  in  Tower  Cliffe.  She  stood  there 
now,  while  the  sun  set  behind  the  golden,  Sussex  hills 
with  a  black  silk  handkerchief  knotted  under  her  chin,  and 
her  small,  keen  eyes  shaded  by  her  hand,  peering  over  the 
sparkling  sea.  On  the  sands,  in  the  crimson  glow  of  the 
sunset,  the  fishermen  who  had  been  out  all  day  were 
drawing  up  their  boats  on  the  shore,  and  among  them 
Mr.  Peter  Black,  with  a  tarpaulin  hat  on  his  head,  and 
noisy  fishy  oil-cloth  jacket,  and  trousers  to  match,  was 
coming  up  the  rocky  road  to  supper. 

Old  Judith,  on  seeing  him,  turned  hastily  into  the  cot- 
tage, grumbling  as  she  went,  and  began  arranging  the 
table.  There  was  no  one  in  the  house  but  herself, 
and  the  room  did  not  look  particularly  neat  or  inviting  ; 
for  Barbara,  lazy  beauty,  liked  far  better  to  dream  over 
novels  and  wander  through  the  beautiful  grounds  of  ti  . 
castle  than  to  sweep  floors  and  wash  dishes,  and  old 
Judith  was  fonder  of  smoking  and  gossiping  than  paying 
any  attention  to  these  little  household  matters  herself. 
So  when  Mr.  Black  entered  his  cottage,  he  found  chairs 
and  tables,  and  stools  and  pots,  and  kettles  and  pails,  all 
higglety-pigglety  over  the  floor,  as  if  these  household 
gods  had  been  dancing  a  fandango  ;  and  his  appearance, 
perfuming  the  air  with  a  most  ancient  and  fish-like  smell, 
did  not  at  all  improve  matters. 

Judith's  low  grumblings  broke  into  an  outcry  the  mo- 
ment she  foui.d  a  listener. 

"  It's  just  gone  seven  by  the  sun-dial  at  the  park-gates  I  '* 
she  cried,  shrilly,  "and  that  girl  has  been  gone  since  sun- 
rise, and  never  put  her  nose  inside  the  door  since." 


t  i 


i    i  > 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


for  there, 
emblem  of 


«3« 


m. 


smoking, 
an  obser- 
tood  there 
issex  hills 
chin,  and 
g over  the 
ow  of  the 
day  were 
5ng  them 
lead,  and 
itch,  was 

)  the  cot- 
iging  the 
t   herself, 
inviting^  ; 
am   over 
Js   of  ti  . 
and   old 
n  paying 
herself, 
d  chairs 
pails,   all 
3usehold 
earance, 
e  smell, 

the  mo- 

gfates  I " 
rice  sun- 


"  What  girl  ?  Barbara?  "  inquired  Mr.  Black,  pulling  a 
clasped  knife  out  of  his  pocket,  and  falling  to  his  supper 
of  breaJ,  and  beef,  and  beer. 

"To  be  sure  it's  Barbara — a  lazy,  undutiful,  disrespectful 
minx  as  ever  lived  !  There  she  goes,  gadding  about  from 
one  week's  end  to  t'other,  with  her  everlasting  novels  in 
her  hand,  or  strumming  on  that  trashy  old  guitar  Lawyer 
Sweet  was  fool  enough  to  give  her,  among  the  rocks. 
Her  stockings  may  be  full  of  holes,  her  dress  may  be  torn 
to  tatters,  the  house  may  be  dirty  enough  to  plant  cab- 
bage in  and  I  may  scold  till  all  is  blue,  and  she  don't  care 
a  straw  for  me,  but  gives  snapp'sh  answers,  and  goes  on 
twice  as  bad  as  before." 

*'  Can't  you  talk  in  the  house,  mother  ?  "  gruffly  insinuated 
Mr.  Black,  with  his  mouth  full,  as  the  old  woman's  voice 
rose  in  her  anger  to  a  perfect  squeal.  '*  You  needn't  make 
the  village  think  you're  being  murdered  about  it." 

"  Needn't  I  ?  "  said  Judith,  her  voice  rising  an  octave 
higher.  "  I  might  be  murdered  and  she  go  to  old  Nick, 
where  she  is  going  as  fast  as  she  can,  for  all  you  care. 
But  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Peter  Black,  if  you're  a  fool,  I'm 
not ;  and  I  won't  see  my  granddaughter  going  to  perdition 
without  raising  my  voice  against  it,  and  so  I  tell  you  !  " 

Peter  Black  laid  down  the  pewter  pot  he  was  raising  to 
his  lips,  and  turned  to  his  tender  mother  with  an  inquir- 
ing scowl : 

"What  do  you  mean,  you  old  screech-owl,  flying  at  a 
man  like  a  wild-cat  the  moment  he  sets  his  feet  inside 
the  door?  Has  Barbara  stuck  you,  or  anybody  else,  that 
you're  raving  mad  like  this?  Lord  knows,"  said  Mr. 
Black,  resuming  his  supper,  "if  she  let  a  little  of  that 
spare  breath  out  of  you,  I  shouldn't  be  sorry." 

"  There'll  be  a  little  spare  breath  let  out  of  somebody 
afore  long,"  screeched  the  old  lady,  clawing  the  air 
viciously  with  her  skinny  fingers,  ' '  and  it  won't  be  me.  I 
told  you  before,  and  I  tell  you  again,  that  girl's  going  to 
Old  Nick  as  fast  as  she  can  ;  and  perhaps  when  you  see 
her  there,  and  it's  too  late,  you'll  begin  to  think  about  it. 
Her  pride,  and  her  bad  temper,  and  the  airs  she  gave  her- 
self about  her  red  cheeks,  and  her  dark  eyes,  and  her  long 
hair,  and  the  learning  she's  managed  to  get,  weren't  bad. 
enough,  but  now  she's  fell  in  with  that  bescented,  pale- 
faced,  high  and   mighty  popinjay   from    foreign    parts» 


;l    i 


^    ^ 


n 


t'  I 


iiM 


>':i 


^ 


a 


11     .  1 


ii 


II 


I  I 


t:i] 


'   I 


132 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


£.nd  they're  together  morning,  noon,  and  night.  And 
now,"  reiterated  old  Judith,  turning  still  more  fiercely  on 
her  scowling  son,  ' '  what  good  is  likely  to  come  of  a  fisher- 
man s  daughter  and  a  baronet's  son  and  heir  being  to- 
gether for  everlastin'?     What  good,  I  ask  you  yourself?" 

Mr.  Peter  Black  laid  down  his  knife,  opened  his  eyes, 
and  pricked  up  his  ears. 

"  Hey?"  he  inquired.  **  What  the  deuce  are  you  driv- 
ing at  now,  mother  ?  " 

"  Do  you  know  Sir  Roland  Cliffe,  of  Cliffwood?  An- 
swer me  that. " 

' '  To  be  sure  I  do. " 

**  And  do  you  know  that  fine  gentleman,  with  all  his 
grand  airs,  Mr.  Leicester  Cliffe,  his  step-son  ?  " 

"  What's  the  old  woman  raving  about?  "  exclaimed  Mr. 
Black,  with  an  impatient  appeal  to  the  elements.  "I've 
seen  Mr.  Leicester  Cliffe,  and  that's  all  I  knov/  about  him, 
or  want  to.     What  the  deuce  has  he  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"Oh,  nothing,  of  course.  Ever  since  he  came  here 
last  May  day,  two  weeks  gone,  he  and  your  daughtei 
have  been  thicker  than  pickpockets — that's  all  !  Only  a 
trifle,  you  know — not  worth  worreting  about !  " 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Mr.  Black,  fixing  his  eyes  on  her  with  a 
powerful  expression. 

And  the  old  woman  ran  on,  with  fierce  volubility  : 

"  No  longer  ago  than  last  night,  they  came  home  to- 
gether at  dark  ;  and  she  was  off  and  away  this  morning 
at  day-dawn,  to  meet  him  again,  of  course.  It's  been  the 
same  thing  ever  since  May  day  :  and  she's  so  savage  no- 
body dare  say  a  word  to  her  ;  and  you're  as  thick-headed 
as  a  mule,  and  couldn't  see  water  if  you  went  to  the  sea- 
side !  Everybody  else  sees  it,  and  she's  the  town's  talk 
by  this  time.  Mr.  Sweet  sees  it  ;  and,  by  the  same  token, 
she  treats  Mr.  Sweet  as  if  he  were  dirt  under  her  feet. 
You  know  very  well  he  wants  her  to  marry  him — him 
that  might  have  the  pick  of  the  parish — and  she  holds  her 
head  up  in  the  air  and  sneers  at  him  for  his  pains,  the  un- 
grateful hussy  ! " 

"Look  here,  mother,"  said  Mr.  Black,  turning  round, 
with  the  blue  blade  of  the  knife  gleaming  in  his  hand,  and 
a  horrible  light  shining  in  his  eyes  ;  "I  know  what's  in 
the  wind  now,  and  all  that  you're  afraid  of,  so  ju-^t  listen  I 
I'm  proud  of  my  girl ;  she's  handsome  and  high-stepping, 


night.  And 
e  fiercely  on 
e  of  a  fisher- 
!ir  being  to- 
yourself  ? " 
2d  his  eyes, 

"e  you  driv- 

'^ood  ?    An- 

with  all  his 

laimed  Mr. 
its.  "I've 
about  him, 
1  it  ?  " 

came  here 

r  daughtei 

!     Only  a 

her  with  a 

)ility  : 

home  to- 
5  morning 
s  been  the 
avage  no- 
ck-headed 
o  the  sea- 
nvn's  talk 
me  token, 
■  her  feet, 
^im— him 
holds  her 
3,  the  un- 

g  round, 
land,  and 
what's  in 
•t  listen  I 
stepping^, 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


m 


and  holds  her  head  above  everybody  far  and  near,  and 
I'm  proud  of  her  for  it.  iin  fond  of  her,  too,  though  I 
mayn't  show  it ;  and  if  there's  anything  in  this  cursed 
world  I  care  for,  it's  her ;  but  I  would  rather  see  her  de^d 
and  buried — I  would  rather  see  her  the  miserable,  cast-off 
wretch  you  are  thinking  of,  than  the  rich  wife  of  that 
black-hearted,  doubled-dyed  hypocrite,  liar,  and  scoundrel, 
Sweet !  I  would,  by —  !  "  cried  Mr.  Black,  with  an  awful 
oath,  plunging  his  knife  into  the  lump  of  cold  beef,  as  if 
it  were  the  boiled  heart  of  the  snake,  Mr.  Sweet. 

With  the  last  imprecation  yet  on  his  lips,  a  clear,  girl- 
ish voice  was  heard  without,  singing  that  good  old  Eng- 
lish tune  of  "Money  Musk"  and  the  door  suddenly 
opened,  and  Barbara,  who  rarely  sang  of  late,  stood,  with 
the  tune  on  her  lips,  before  them. 

The  long  dark  hair,  unbound  and  disheveled  by  the 
strong  sea-breezes,  floated  in  most  becoming  disorder 
over  her  shoulders  ;  her  cheeks  were  like  scarlet  rose 
berries  ;  her  dark  eyes  dancing,  her  red  lips  breaking  into 
smiles  like  a  happy  child  ;  she  fairly  filled  the  dreary  and 
disorderly  room  with  the  light  of  her  splendid  beauty. 

Mother  and  son  turned  toward  her — one  wrathful  and 
menacing,  the  other  with  a  sort  of  savage  pride  and 
affection. 

"  So  you've  come  at  last,"  broke  out  old  Judith,  in  her 
shrillest  falsetto,  "  after  gadding  about  since  early  morn- 
ing, YQ)Xi  slovenly " 

'*0h,  grandmother,  don't  scold!"  exclaimed  Barbara,  ' 
who  was  a  great  deal  too  happy  and  full  of  hope  to  bear 
anger  and  scolding  just  then.      "I  will  clear  up  this  room 
for  you  in  five  minutes  ;  and  I  don't  want  any  supper  ;  I 
had  it  up  at  the  lodge." 

"Oh!  you  were  up  at  the  lodge,  and  with  Mr.  Lei- 
cester Cliffe,  of  course  ?  " 

Barbara  flushed  to  the  temples,  more  at  her  grand- 
mother's tone  than  words,  and  her  eyes  flashed  ;  but  for 
once  she  restrained  herself. 

"No,  I  wasn't,  grandmother.  Mr.  Cliffe  left  for  Lon- 
don in  the  first  train  this  morning  " 

Old  Judith  sneered. 

"You  seem  to  know  all  about  Mr.  Cliffe 's  doings.  Of 
course,  he  told  you  that,  and  bade  you  good-bye  when 
you  were  caught  so  nicely  in  the  rain  last  night." 


134 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


r!  ■,.'. 


INI 


•   HI 


,1 


■;     ' 


1.    :  ■'  ' 


Barbara  compressed  her  lips  in  rising-  wrath ;  but  she 
went  steadily  on  arranging  stools  and  chairs  in  silence. 
Old  Judith,  however,  was  not  to  be  mollified. 

"Now,  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  my  lady,  you  had  better 
bring  these  fine  goings-on  to  an  end,  and  let  Mr.  Leicester 
Cliffe  go  gallanting  round  the  country  with  grand  foUvS 
like  himself,  while  you  mend  your  father's  nets  and  keep 
his  house  clean.  There  is  Mr.  Sweet  been  here  looking 
for  you  half  a  dozen  times  to-day,  and  a  pretty  thing  for 
him  to  hear  that  you  had  been  away  since  daylight, 
nobody  knew  where,  but  Mr.  Leicester  Cliffe,  perhaps, 
and " 

But  here  Barbara's  brief  thread  of  patience  snapped 
short,  and  with  an  expression  of  ungovernable  anger,  she 
flung  the  chair  she  held  in  her  hand  against  the  wall,  and 
was  out  of  the  house  in  an  instant,  slamming  the  door 
after  her  with  a  most  sonorous  bang. 

Before  she  had  run,  as  she  was  doing  in  her  angry  ex- 
citement, a  dozen  yards,  she  heard  a  heavy  step  behind 
her,  and  a  voice  close  at  her  ear  singing,  "Oh,  there's 
nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life  as  Love's  young  dream  !  "  It 
mode  her  turn,  and,  behold,  the  sunshiny  figure  and  smil- 
ing face  of  Mr.  Sweet. 

"  Home  at  last.  Miss  Barbara!  I  have  been  at  least 
half  a  dozen  times  to-day  in  the  cottage,  thinking  you 
were  lost." 

"  You  give  yourself  a  great  deal  of  unnecessary  trouble, 
Mr.  Sweet." 

' '  Nothing  done  for  you  can  be  any  trouble.  Miss  Bar- 
bara.     I  hope  you've  spent  a  pleasant  day." 

"Thank  you!" 

"  This  evening  wind  is  cool,  and  you  have  no  shawl ; 
shall  I  not  go  to  the  house  and  bring  you  one?  " 

"No;  I  don't  need  it." 

"Miss  Barbara,  how  cold  you  are!  I  wonder  what 
kind  of  a  shawl  would  warm  your  manner  to  me." 

Miss  Barbara,  leaning  against  a  tall  rock,  was  looking 
over  a  darkening  sea,  with  a  face  that  might  have  been 
cut  out  of  the  solid  stone,  for  all  the  emotion  it  expressed. 
The  crimson  and  purple  billows  of  sunset  had  faded  away 
into  the  dim  gray  gloaming,  pierced  with  bright  white 
stars,  and  the  waning  May  moon  was  lifting  her  silver 
crescent  over  the  murmuring  waves.     The  fishing  boats 


i1 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


"35 


th ;  but  she 
in  silence. 

had  better 
[r.  Leicester 
grand  foKvS 
ts  and  keep 
ere  looking 
ty  thing  for 
e  daylight, 
'e,  perhaps, 

:e   snapped 

■  anger,  she 
ewall,  and 
g  the  door 

■  3"gfry  ex- 
tep  behind 
Oh,  there's 
earn  !  "  It 
J  and  smil- 

n  at  least 
iking  you 

ry  trouble, 

Miss  Bar- 


\o  shawl; 


ider  what 
e." 

s  looking 
ave  been 
xpressed. 
led  away 
ifht  white 
ler  silver 
ng  boats 


were  dancing  in  and  out  in  the  shining  path  it  made 
across  the  waters  ;  and  Barbara,  with  her  long  hair  flut- 
tering behind  her  in  the  wind,  watched  them  with  her 
cold,  beautiful  eyes,  and  heeded  the  man  beside  her  no 
more  than  the  rock  against  which  she  leaned. 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  and  then  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  with  a  slight  smile. 

"Leicester  Cliffe  left  town  this  morning  for  London^ 
did  he  not  ?  "  he  asked  at  length,  abruptly. 

"I  believe  so." 

"Is  that  the  cause  of  your  gloom  and  silence  to- 
night ?  " 

Barbara  turned  impetuously  round,  with  a  dangerous 
fire  iii  her  great  dark  eyes. 

' '  Mr.  Sweet,  take  care  what  you  are  saying.  You  will 
oblige  me  exceedingly  by  going  about  your  own  affairs, 
whatever  they  may  be,  and  leaving  me  alone.  I  didn't 
ask  your  company  here,  and  I  don't  want  it !  " 

Mr.  Sweet  smiled  good-naturedly. 

"But  when  I  want  you  so  much.  Miss  Barbara,  what 
does  a  little  reluctance  on  your  part  signify  ?  Two  weeks 
ago,  on  the  morning  of  May  day — you  remember  May 
day  ?  I  did  myself  the  honor  to  ask  you  for  this  fair 
hand." 

"And  received  *  No '  for  an  answer.  I  hope  you  re- 
member that  also,  Mr.  Sweet  ? " 

"Distinctly,  Miss  Barbara;  yet  in  two  weeks  your 
mind  may  have  changed ;  and,  if  so,  I  here  to-night  re- 
new the  offer." 

"You  are  very  kind;  but  I  have  only  the  trouble  of 
saying  *No,'  over  again." 

"Barbara,  stop  and  think.  I  love  you.  I  am  a  rich 
man — richer  than  most  people  imagine — and  I  think, 
without  flattering  myself,  there  are  few  girls  in  Clifton- 
lea  who  would  hesitate  about  refusing  me.  Barbara, 
pause  before  you  throw  away  so  good  an  offer." 

"There  is  no  need.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  feel  hon- 
ored by  your  preference  ;  but  I  don't  in  the  least,  and 
that  is  the  truth.  You  may  make  any  of  the  Cliftonlea 
young  ladies  happy  by  so  brilliant  an  offer,  if  you  choose  ; 
and  I  promise  to  go  to  the  wedding,  if  she  asks  me,  with- 
out feeling  the  least  jealousy  at  her  good  fortune." 

"You  are  sarcastic ;  and  yet  I  think  there  are  some 


136 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


w 


i '  V 


^ 


':» 


I  >!' 


!il 


II 


i  i 


t'l. 


feelings — gratitude,  for  instance — that  should  make  you 
treat  me  and  my  offer  with  at  least  decent  respect. " 

"Gratitude  ?"  said  Barbara,  fixing  her  large  dark  eyes 
with  a  strong  glance  on  his  face.  '*  I  don't  owe  you  any- 
thing, Mr.  Sweet.  No;  don't  interrupt  me,  if  you  please. 
I  know  what  you  would  say,  that  I  owe  all  the  home  I 
have  known  for  the  last  two  years  to  you,  and  that  you 
rescued  me  from  a  life  of  hardship,  and  perhaps  degra- 
dation. Well,  I've  been  told  that  so  often  by  you  that  I 
have  ceased  to  think  it  a  favor ;  and  as  from  the  first  it 
was  your  own  pleasure  to  do  so,  and  without  my  will  or 
request,  I  consider  I'm  not  indebted  to  you  the  value  of  a 
farthing.  As  to  education  and  all  that,  you  know  as  well 
I  do  that  Colonel  Cliffe  sent  tne  to  the  Town  Academy, 
and  provided  me  with  everything  while  there.  So,  Mr. 
Sweet,  don't  talk  of  gratitude  any  more,  if  you  and  I  are 
to  be  friends." 

While  she  spoke,  in  a  voice  clear  and  high,  with  a  ring- 
ing tone  of  command  and  a  warning  fire  in  her  eye,  Mr. 
Sweet  watched  her  with  the  same  quiet,  provoking  smile. 
In  her  beauty  and  in  her  pride  she  towered  above  him, 
and  flung  back  his  gifts,  like  stones,  in  his  face. 

"And  when  is  it  to  be.-* "  he  asked,  when  she  ceased. 

"What?" 

"Your  marriage  with  the  heir  of  Sir  Roland  Cliffe." 

Even  in  the  moonlight  he  saw  the  scarlet  flush  that 
dyed  face  and  neck,  and  the  short,  half-stifled  breath. 

"This  is  your  revenge,"  she  said,  calmly,  and  waving 
him  away,  with  the  air  of  an  outraged  queen  ;  "but  go 
— go,  and  never  speak  to  me  again  !  " 

"Not  even  when  you  are  Lady  Cliffe?" 

"Go!"  she  said,  fiercely,  and  stamping  her  foot. 
"Go,  or  I  shall  make  you !  " 

"Only  one  moment.  When  there  are  two  moons  in 
yonder  sky;  when  you  can  dip  up  all  the  water  in  the 
sea  before  us  with  a  teaspoon  ;  when  *  Birnam  Wood 
doth  come  to  Dunsinane' — then — then  Leicester  Cliffe 
will  marry  Barbara  Black  !  I  have  said  you  will  be  my 
wife  ;  and,  sooner  or  later,  that  time  will  come.  Mean- 
time, proud  and  pretty  Barbara,  good-night." 

Taking  off  his  hat,  he  bowed  low,  and  with  the  smile 
still  on  his  lips,  walked  away  in  the  moonlight,  not  only 


I    ■} 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


137 


make  you 
pect. " 
3  dark  eyes 
ve  you  any- 
you  please, 
he  home  I 
d  that  you 
aps  degra- 
you  that  I 
1  the  first  it 
my  will  or 
!  value  of  a 
ow  as  well 

Academy, 
J.  So,  Mr. 
Li  and  I  are 

i^ith  a  ring- 
;r  eye,  Mr. 
king- smile, 
ibove  him, 

3  ceased. 

:iiffe." 

flush  that 
)reath. 
id  waving 
"but  go 


her    foot. 

moons  in 
er  in  the 
mi  Wood 
;ter  Cliffe 
'ill  be  my 
Mean- 

the  smile 
not  only 


smiling,    but  singing,   and  Barbara  distinctly  heard  tho 
words  : 

"  So  long  as  he's  constant, 
So  long  I'll  prove  true; 
And  then  if  he  changes, 
Why,  so  can  I,  too." 

Barbara  sank  down  on  the  rock,  and  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands,  outraged,  ashamed,  indignant ;  and  yet, 
in  the  midst  of  all,  with  a  sharp,  keen  pain  aching  in  hei 
heart.  She  had  been  so  happy  all  that  day,  beloved,  lov» 
ing  and  trusting — thinking  herself  standing  on  a  rock, 
and  finding  it  crumbling  to  dust  and  ashes.  Oh,  why 
had  they  not  let  her  alone  !  Why  had  they  not  let  her 
hope  and  be  happy  !  If  Leicester  proved  false,  she  felt 
as  thouc^h  she  should  die  ;  and  half  hating  herself  for  be- 
lieving for  a  moment  he  could  change,  she  sprang  up, 
and  darted  off,  with  a  fleet,  light  step,  toward  the  still 
open  park  gates,  determined  to  visit  once  more  the  tryst- 
ing-place,  and  reassure  herselfthere  that  their  mutual  love 
was  not  all  an  illusion. 

She  never  thought  of  the  ghostly  voice  in  her  excite- 
ment, as  she  walked  up  thf*  moonlit  avenue  and  down  the 
gloomy  lane,  toward  the  fallen  elm.  The  pale  moon's 
rays  came  glancing  faintly  through  the  slanting  leaves, 
and  kneeling  down  beside  it,  she  saw  the  united  initials 
his  hand  had  carved,  and  the  girl  clasped  her  hands  in 
renewed  hope  and  joy. 

"  He  is  true  !  "  she  cried,  to  her  heart.  "He  will  be 
faithful  and  true  to  me  forever  !  " 

"  He  is  false  !  "  said  a  low,  solemn  voice  from  the  grave 
on  which  she  knelt  ;  and,  starting  up,  with  a  suppressed 
shriek,  Barbara  found  herself  face  to  face  with  an  awful 
vision. 

A  nun,  supernaturally  tall,  all  in  black  and  white,  stood 
directly  opposite,  with  the  grave  and  the  fallen  elm  be- 
tween them.  Without  noise  or  movement,  it  was  be^'ore 
her  ;  how,  or  from  whence  it  came,  impossible  to  tell  ; 
its  tall  head  seeming  in  the  shadowy  moonlight  to  reach 
nearly  to  the  ■'ree-tops,  in  a  long,  straight  nun's  dress,  a 
black  nun't,  veil,  a  white  band  over  the  forehead,  and 
another  over  the  throat  and  breast.  The  moon's  rays 
fell  distinctly  on  the  face  of  deadly  whiteness,  and  with, 


I 


i  i 


r 

14 


I' 


nu 


'I  i!'' 


I 


.^! 


ll: 


138 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


two  stony  eyes  shining  menacingly  under  bent  and  stern 

brows. 

■   Barbara  stood  stupefied,  spell-bound,  speechless. 

The  figure  raised  its  shrouded  arm,  and  pointing  at  her 
with  one  flickering  finger,  the  voice  again  rose  from  the 
grave,  for  the  white  lips  of  the  specter  moved  not. 

"Thrice  have  you  been  warned,  and  thrice  have  you 
spurned  the  warning  !  Your  good  angel  weeps,  and  the 
doom  is  gathering  thick  and  dark  overhead.  Once  more, 
Barbara,  beware  ! " 

Still  Barbara  stood  mute,  white  almost  as  the  specter, 
with  supernatural  terror. 

With  shrouded  arm  and  flickering  finger  still  pointing 
toward  her,  the  ghostly  nun  gazed  at  her  while  the  sad, 
solemn  voice  again  rose  from  the  grave  : 

"You  love,  and  think  you  are  beloved  in  return.  Oh, 
rash,  infatuated  child.  Spurn  every  thought  of  him  as 
you  would  a  deadly  viper ;  for  there  is  rum,  there  is 
misery,  there  is  death  in  his  love  !  " 

"  Be  it  so,  then  !  "  cried  Barbara,  wildly,  finding  voice 
in  a  sort  of  frantic  desperation.  "  Better  death  with  him 
than  life  with  another  !  " 

' '  Barbara,  be  warned,  for  your  doom  is  at  hand  !  "  said 
the  unseen  voice. 

And,  as  it  spoke,  the  moon  was  lost  in  shadow,  a  dark 
cloud  shrouded  the  gloomy  grave  and  the  black  shape. 
There  was  a  quick  and  angry  rush  as  it  vanished  among 
the  trees,  and  the  whole  night  seemed  to  blacken  as  it 
passed. 


r:t 


» 


Ni 


ii 


f  V 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE   ROSE   OF   SUSSEX. 

While  Barbara  hoped,  and  Barbara  feared,  Leicetster 
Cliffe  was  whirling  away  as  fast  as  the  steam  engine 
could  carry  him  towards  London  and  his  promised  bride. 
And  the  same  'vhite  crescent  moon  that  saw  her  standing 
at  the  trysting-place,  came  peering  through  the  closed 
shutters  of  a  West-End  hotel,  and  saw  that  young  gentle- 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


«39 


t  and  stern 

less. 

ting  at  her 
e  from  the 

..h9 

not. 

>'« 

have  you 

s,  and  the 

)nce  more. 

le  specter. 

1  pointing- 
e  the  sad, 

urn.     Oh, 

of  him  as 

1,  there  is 

ding  voice 
with  him 

.  .? 

md  !  "  said 

►w,  a  dark 

ck  shape. 

3d  among 
;ken  as  it 

.)'■ 

Leicester 
n  engine 
sed  bride. 

standing 
le  closed 
ig  gentle- 


man standing  before  a  swing-glass,  making  a  most 
elaborate  and  faultless  toilet.  A  magnificent  watch,  set 
with  brilliants,  that  lay  on  the  dressing-table  before  him, 
was  pointing  its  golden  hands  to  the  hour  of  eleven, 
when  there  came  a  rap  at  the  door,  and  opening  it,  Mr. 
Cliffe  was  confronted  by  a  tali  waiter,  with  a  card  on  a 
small  silver  tray." 

"Show  the  gentleman  up,"  said  Leicester,  lifting  the 
card  and  glancing  at  it,  and  going  on  with  his  toilet. 

Two  minutes  after,  a  quick,  impetuous,  noisy  step 
was  taking  the  stairs  two  at  a  time,  and  Tom  Shirley, 
flushed,  excited,  and  breathless,  as  usual,  stood  before 
him. 

"My  dear  fellow,  how  goes  it?"  was  his  cry,  seizing 
his  cousin's  hand  with  a  grip  that  made  him  wince.  **  I 
should  have  been  here  ages  ago,  only  I  never  received 
your  note  until  within  the  last  ten  minutes.  I  was  at  the 
opera,  and  had  just  come  to  my  lodgings  to  spread  my- 
self out  in  gorgeous  array  for  the  ball,  when  I  found  your 
letter,  and  came  steaming  up  here  without  a  second's  loss 
of  time.  When  did  you  come  ?  And  are  you  going  to 
make  one  in  my  lady's  crush  to-night  ?  " 

"Sit  down,"  was  Leicester's  nonchalant  reply  to  this 
breathless  outburst.  * '  I  had  given  you  up  in  despair, 
and  was  about  starting  on  my  own  responsibility.  What 
induced  you  to  go  to  the  opera  to-night  ?  " 

"Oh,  this  is  the  last  night  of  the  brightest  star  of  the 
season  ;  and,  besides,  we  are  time  enough  for  the  ball. 
How  long  before  you  have  finished  making  yourself 
resplendent?" 

"  I  have  finished  now.     Come  I  " 

Tom,  who  had  just  seated  himself,  jumped  up,  and  led 
the  way  downstairs,  two  at  a  time,  as  before,  and,  on 
reaching  the  pavement,  drew  out  a  cigar-case,  offered  it  to 
his  companion,  lighted  a  weed,  and  then,  taking  the 
other's  arm,  marched  him  off  briskly. 

"  We  won't  call  a  cab — they're  nothing  but  bores,  and 
it's  not  ten  minutes'  walk  to  Shirley  House.  How  did  you 
leave  all  the  good  people  in  Cliftonlea — Sir  Roland  among 
the  rest  ? " 

"Sir  Roland  has  had  the  gout;  otherwise,  I  believe, 
he's  had  nothing  to  complain  of." 

"  Well,  that's  a  good  old  family  disorder  we  mutt 


) 


^ 


'  if 


: '   '  I'.'h       ^  I 


\ 


m  > 


Wi 


!  'I 


'f 


I  ilii 


140 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


all  come  to  in  the  fulness  01  time.     Was  it  to-day  you 
arrived  ? " 

"Yes.  Lady  Agnes  was  good  enough  to  send  me  a 
pressing  invitation  to  this  grand  ball  of  hers,  and,  of 
course,  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  obedience." 

"You  must  have  found  life  in  Cliftonlea  awfully  slow 
for  the  last  two  weeks,"  said  Tom,  with  an  energetic  puff 
at  his  cigar.  "What  did  you  do  with  yourself  all  the 
time  ?  " 

Leicester  laughed. 

"So  many  things  that  it  would  puzzle  me  to  recount 
them.     Shooting,  fishing,  riding,  boating " 

"With  a  little  courting  between  whiles,"  interrupted 
Tom,  with  gravity.  '*  How  did  you  leave  little  Bar- 
bara .?  " 

Leicester  Cliffe  took  his  cigar  from  his  lips,  and  knocked 
the  white  end  off  carefully  with  his  finger." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"Don't  you?  Oh,  you  are  an  artless  youth  !  Perhaps 
you  think  1  don't  know  how  steep  you  have  been  coming 
it  with  our  pretty  May  Queen.  But  don't  trouble  yourself 
to  invent  any  little  fictions  about  it,  for  I  know  the 
whole  thing  from  beginning  to  end." 

"  What  do  you  know   ?  " 

"That  you  have  been  fooling  thai  little  girl,  and  I 
won't  have  it.  Oh,  you  needn't  fire  up.  Barbara  is  a 
great  friend  of  mine,  and  you  will  just  have  the  goodness 
to  let  her  alone." 

"  Pshaw  I     What  nonsense  is  all  this?" 

"  Is  it  nonsense  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Who  has  been  talking  to  you  ?  " 

"  One  who  is  too  old  a  bird  to  be  caught  with  chaff. 
Fred  Douglas,  of  the  Dragoons.  He  came  up  here  to 
London  a  week  ago." 

"I'll  put  a  stray  bullet  through  Fred  Douglas' head,  and 
teach  him  to  hold  his  tongue,  and  yours,  too,  my  good 
cousin,  if  you  take  it  upon  yourself  to  lecture  me.  How 
are  all  the  Shirieys  ?  " 

"Tolerable.  Lady  Agnes  is  up  to  her  eyes  in  the 
business  of  balls,  and  receptions,  and  concerts,  and  mat- 
inees. The  colonel  has  been  voted  unanimously  by  all 
the  young  ladies  of  Belgrave  square  a  love  of  a  man,  and 
Vic  is  all  the  rage,  and  has  turned  more  heads  and  de- 


*-m 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


141 


to-day  you 

■ 

send  me  a 
?rs,   and,   of 

1 

A'fully  slow 
lergetic  puff 
•self  all  the 

j^H 

to  recount 

1 

interrupted 
:   little   Bar- 

'^V^H 

in  d  knocked 

1 

I !     Perhaps 

>een  coming 

ible  yourself 

know  the 

Wk 

3  girl,  and  I 
arbara  is  a 
le  goodness 

1 

with  chaff, 
up  here  to 

3' head,  and 

3,  my  good 

me.      How 

eyes  in  the 
s,  and  mat- 
)usly  by  all 
a  man,  and 
ids  and  de- 


clined more  offers  this  winter  than  you  or  I  could  count 
in  a  week.  The  Rose  of  Sussex  is  the  toast  of  the 
town. '" 

"Indeed!  And  at  the  head  uf  her  list  of  killed  and 
wounded  stands  the  name  of  Tom  Shirley." 

Toni  winced  perceptibly. 

"Precisely!  And  I'll  wager  my  diamond  ring  that 
yours  is  there  too  before  the  end  of  a  week." 

"Is  she  so  pretty,  then  ?  " 

"  Pretty  ?  That's  a  nice  M'ord  to  apply  to  the  belle  of 
London.  Here  we  are,  and  you  will  soon  see  for  your- 
self/" 

A  long  file  of  carriages  was  drawn  up  before  the  door 
of  Shirley  House,  and  a  crowd  of  servants  in  livery  were 
flitting  busily  hither  and  thither.  Some  of  the  guests  were 
just  passing  into  the  great  lighted  hall,  but,  instead  of 
following  their  example,  Tom  drew  his  companion  toward 
a  deserted  side-door. 

"  We  won't  go  in  there  and  have  our  names  bawled  by 
the  flunkeys,  and  be  stared  at  as  we  enter  by  a  hundred 
pairs  of  eyes.  I  know  all  the  ins  and  outs  of  this  place, 
and  there's  a  private  way  that  will  bring  us  to  the  ball- 
room, where  you  can  have  a  good  look  at  the  Rose  of 
Sussex  before  you  are  presented  to  her  in  form. " 

"He  rang,  as  he  spoke,  the  bell  of  the  side  door,  and 
on  its  being  opened  by  a  liveried  slave,  he  led  the  way 
through  the  marble  hall  up  a  wide  staircase,  through 
several  empty  rooms  and  passages,  all  sumptuously  fitted 
up,  and  echoing  with  the  sounds  of  distant  music  and 
merry-making,  and  finally  into  a  great  conservatory,  with 
the  moonlight  streaming  through  two  large,  arched  win- 
dows, which  opened  into  a  forsaken  music-room,  which 
led  into  the  crowded  ball-room.  There  was  no  door  be- 
tween the  music  and  ball  rooms,  but,  instead,  a  wide  arch 
hung  with  curtains  of  green  and  silver,  and  under  their 
friendly  shade  the  two  new-comers  could  sit  unobserved, 
and  look  on  the  scene  before  them  to  their  hearts'  content. 

The  great  ball-room  was  filled,  but  not  to  repletion. 
Lady  Agnes  had  too  much  taste  and  sense  to  suffocate 
her  guests  ;  and  every  moment  the  distinguished  names  of 
fresh  arrivals  came  from  the  lips  of  the  tall  gentleman  in 
livery  at  the  door.  The  musicians,  sitting  perched  in  a 
gilded  gallery,  were  blowing  away  on   their  brass   in- 


14* 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


I J 'I' 


%     '-{^ 


struments,  and  filling  the  air  with  German  dance  music  ; 
two  or  three  sets  of  quadrilles  were  in  full  swing  at  the 
upper  end  of  the  room,  while  the  wall  flowers  and  the 
elderlies,  who  did  not  fancy  cards,  were  enjoying  them- 
selves after  their  own  fashion  at  the  lower  end.  The  glare 
of  the  myriad  cluster  of  gas  jets  fell  on  the  splendid  throng 
where  satins  and  velvets  rustled,  and  point  lace — the 
twenty  years'  labor  of  some  Brussels  lace-maker — draped 
snowy  elbows  and  arms,  where  jewels  flashed  their  rain- 
bow fires,  where  fans  waved  and  plumes  fluttered,  f«nd 
perfumes  scented  the  air;  where  each  pretty  and  high- 
titled  lady  seemed  to  vie  and  eclipse  the  other  in 
splendor. 

And  near  the  center  of  the  room,  superb  in  family 
diamonds  and  black  velvet,  stood  Lady  Agnes  by  the  side 
of  a  starred  and  ribboned  foreigner,  receiving  her  guests 
like  a  queen.  Lady  Agnes  always  wore  black — the 
malicious  ones  said,  because  it  suited  her  style,  and  made 
her  look  youthful ;  but  whether  from  that  cause  or  not. 
she  cerlc*inly  did  look  youthful,  and  handsome,  too,  albeit 
her  marriageable  granddaughter  was  the  belle  of  the  ball. 
Pale  and  proud,  she  stood  toying  with  her  fan,  her  rich, 
black  dress  sweeping  the  chalked  floor,  her  diamonds 
blazing,  and  her  haughty  head  erect,  while  the  distin- 
guished foreigner  bent  over  her,  listening  with  profoundest 
respect  to  her  lightest  word.  Tom  touched  Leicester  on 
the  shoulder,  and  nodded  toward  her. 

"That's  my  lady,  standing  there  with  the  air  of  a 
dowager-duchess,  and  talking  to  the  Due  de  Brumale  as  if 
she  thought  him  honored  by  the  condescension." 

**  Lady  Agnes  is  handsome  !  "  said  Leicester,  glancing 
toward  her,  "and  looks  as  if  the  pride  of  all  the  Cliffes 
were  concentrated  in  herself.  I  remember  her  perfectly, 
though  I  have  not  seen  her  since  I  was  a  boy ;  but  where 
is  your  Rose  of  Sussex  ?  " 

"Behold  her!"  said  Tom,  tragically.  "There  she 
comes,  on  the  arm  of  Lord  Henry  Lisle.     Look  !  " 

Leicester  looked.  Moving  slowly  down  the  room,  at 
the  head  of  the  dancers,  came  one  whom  he  could  almost 
have  known,  without  being  told,  to  be  the  Rose  of  Sussex. 
A  youthful  angel,  girlish  and  slender,  stately,  but  not  tall. 
with  a  profusion  of  golden  curls  falling  over  the  shoulders 
to  the  taper  waist ;  beautiful  eyes  of  bright,  violet  blue. 


IP 


;l-^ll 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


«43 


in  dance  music ; 
full  swing  at  the 

1  flowers  and  the 

2  enjoying  them- 
■  end.  The  glare 
5  splendid  throng 

point  lace — the 
3-inaker — draped 
lashed  their  rain- 
les  fluttered,  ^nd 
pretty  and  high- 
ie    the   other  in 

jperb  in  family 
gnes  by  the  side 
iving  her  guests 
/ore  black — the 
style,  and  made 
at  cause  or  not. 
some,  too,  albeit 
belle  of  the  ball, 
ler  fan,  her  rich, 
•,  her  diamonds 
vhile  the  distin- 
ivith  profoundest 
led  Leicester  on 

th  the  air  of  a 
de  Brumale  as  if 
ension." 

icester,  glancing 
of  all  the  Cliffes 
>er  her  perfectly, 
boy ;  but  where 

^      "  There   she 

Look  !  " 
vn  the  room,  at 
he  could  almost 

Rose  of  Sussex, 
ely,  but  not  tall. 
'■erthe  shoulders 
ght,  violet  blue, 


and  a  bright,  radiant  look  within  them,  like  that  of  a 
happy  child.  Her  dress  was  of  pale-blue  glacd  silk,  under 
flounces  of  Honiton  lace,  looped  up  with  bouquets  of 
rosebuds  and  jasmine,  a  large  cluster  of  the  same  flowers 
clasping  the  perfect  corsage,  and  pale  pearls  on  the  ex- 
quisite neck  and  arms.  Her  dress  was  simple,  one  of  the 
simplest,  perhaps,  in  the  whole  room  ;  but  as  the  artist 
looked  at  her,  he  thought  of  the  young  May  moon  in  its 
silver  sheen — of  a  clear,  white  star  in  the  blue  summer 
sky — of  a  spotless  lily,  lifting  its  lovely  head  in  a  silent 
mountain  lake. 

It  was  hardly  a  beautiful  face — there  were  a  score  hand- 
somer in  the  room,  but  there  certainly  was  not  another 
half  so  lovely.  A  vision  rose  before  him  as  he  looked,  of 
the  smiling  faces  of  Madonnas  and  angels  as  he  had  seen 
them  pictured  in  grand  old  cathedrals  ;  and  before  the  sin- 
less soul  looking  out  of  those  clear  eyes,  he  quailed  in- 
wardly, feeling  as  though  he  were  unworthy  to  touch  the 
hem  of  her  robe. 

"Well,"  said  Tom,  looking  at  him  curiously,  "there  is 
the  Rose  of  Sussex,  and  what  do  you  think  of  her.?  " 

"  It  is  a  sylph  ;  it  is  a  snow-spirit  ;  it  is  a  fairy,  by  moon- 
light !  That  is  the  ideal  face  I've  been  trying  all  my  life 
to  paint,  and  failed,  because  I  never  could  find  a  model !  " 

"Bah!  I  would  rather  have  one  woman  of  flesh  and 
blood,  than  a  thousand  on  canvas  !  Come,  we  have  stood 
here  long  enough,  and  it  is  time  we  were  paying  our  re- 
spects to  Lady  Agnes." 

"With  all  my  heart,"  said  Leicester,  and  making  their 
way  through  the  throng,  both  stood  the  next  moment  be- 
fore the  stately  lady  of  the  mansion. 

"Aunt,"  said  Tom,  describing  a  graceful  circle  with  his 
hand,  as  he  bowed  before  the  lady.  "I  come  late,  but  I 
bring  my  apology.  Allow  me  to  present  your  nephew, 
Mr.  Leicester  Shirley  Cliffe !  " 

Lady  Agnes  turned  with  a  bright,  sudden  smile,  and  held 
out  her  jeweled  hand. 

"Is  it  possible  !  My  dear  Leicester,  I  am  enchanted  to 
see  you.  How  well  you  are  looking  !  and  how  tall  you 
have  grown  !  Can  this  really  be  the  little  boy,  with  the 
long  curls,  who  used  to  run  wild,  long  ago,  at  Castle 
Cliffe?" 

Leicester  laughed. 


•  I 


i.!;! 


•  \ 


■1  '■ 


p 

/ 


'.\  I 


h'm : 


i1! 


ii-.ii 


144 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


"The  same  madam,  thouji^h  the  longf  curls  are  tifone, 
and  the  little  boy  stands  before  you  six  feet  high." 

*'  I  had  quite  despaired  of  your  cominp^.  And  you  have 
actually  been  in  Kngland  a  fortnight,  and  never  came  to 
see  us.  I  am  positively  ashamed  of  you.  Have  you  seen 
the  colonel  ? " 

"  No  ;  we  have  just  arrived." 

•'  ilovv  was  it  you  were  not  announced?" 

' '  Oil,  I  brought  him  round  by  a  side-door  ;  we  were  late, 
and  our  modesty  would  not  permit  us  to  become  the 
cynosure  of  all  eyes.  There  come  the  colonel  and  Vic, 
now . " 

Colonel  Shirley,  looking  quite  as  young  and  handsome 
as  on  the  day  of  the  Cliftonlea  races,  six  years  before,  was 
advancing  with  the  belle  of  the  room,  and  my  lady  tapped 
him  lightly  with  her  fan  on  the  arm, 

"Cliffe,  do  you  know  who  this  is  }  " 

"  Leicester  Cliffe,  by  Jove  !  "  cried  the  colonel,  in  de- 
lighted recognition,  "  My  dear  boy,  is  it  possible  I  see 
you  again  after  all  these  years,  and  growr  out  of  all 
knowledge  ?   Where  in  the  world  have  you  dropped  from  ? " 

"  From  Cliftonlea,  the  last  place,  I  have  found  out, 
after  all  my  wandering,  that  there  is  no  place  like  home." 

"Righ',  my  boy.  Vic,  this  is  your  cousin,  Leicester 
Cliffe." 

The  long  lashes  drooped,  and  the  young  lady  courtesied 
profoundly. 

"You  remember  him,  Vic,  don't  you  ?"  said  Tom; 
"  or  at  least  you  remember  the  picture  in  Cliffewood  you 
used  to  go  into  such  raptures  about  long  ago.  Did  you 
think  I  was  not  coming  to-night,  Vic?  " 

"  I  never  thought  of  you  at  all  !  "  said  the  young  lady, 
with  the  prettiest  flush  and  pout  imaginable. 

* '  I  know  better  than  that.  There  goes  the  next  quadrille. 
May  I  have  the  honor,  Vic  ?  " 

"No.     I  am  engaged." 

"The  next  then?" 

"Engaged," 

"And  the  next?" 

Miss  Vic  laughed  and  consulted  her  tablets, 

"Very  well,  sir  ;  that  is  the  last  before  supper,  and  per- 
haps, you  may  have  the  honor  also  of  taking  me  down." 

"And  after  supper,  cousin  mine,"  said  Leicester,   as 


' 


"«rfl 


:urls  are  fifone, 
2t  high." 

And  you  have 
never  came  to 
Have  you  seen 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


MS 


> »» 


;  we  were  late, 
to  become  the 
lonel  and  Vic, 

and  handsome 
irs  before,  was 
^y  lady  tapped 


olonel,  in  de- 
possible  I  see 
wr  out  of  all 
oppedfrcm?" 
ve  found  out, 
:elike  home." 
isin,  Leicester 

idy  courtesied 

said  Tom; 
liffewood  you 
JO.     Did  you 

J  young  lady, 

ext  quadrille. 


)per,  and  per- 

me  down." 

-eicester,   as 


.1'. 


her  partner  for  the  set,  then  forming,  came  to  lead  her 
away,  "  may  I  not  hope  to   be  equally  honored  ?  " 

"Oh,  the  first  aftcf  supper,"  with  another  slight  laugh 
and  blush,  "is  a  waltz,  monsieur,  and  I  never  waltz.  " 

"  For  the  first  quadrille,  then?  " 

The  young  lady  bowed  assent  and  walked  away,  just  as 
the  colonel,  who  had  been  absent  for  a  moment,  came  up 
with  another  lady  on  his  arm — a  plain,  dark  girl,  not  at  all 
pretty,  very  quietly  dressed  and  without  jewels. 

"You  haven't  forgotten  this  young  lady,  I  hope,  Leices- 
ter. Don't  you  remember  your  former  playmate,  little 
Maggie  Shirley  ?  " 

"C'crtainly.  Why,  Maggie  !  "he  cried,  his  eyes  lighting 
up  with  real  pleasure,  and  catching  the  hand  she  held  out 
in  both  his. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  again,  Leicester,"  said  Maggie, 
a  faint  color  coming  for  a  moment  into  her  dark  check,  and 
then  fading  away.  "  I  thought  you  were  never  going  to 
come  back  to  old  England  again," 

"Ah!  1  was  P-^t  quite  so  far  gone  as  that.  Are  you 
engaged  ? " 

"No." 

"Come,  then.  I  have  a  thousand  things  to  say  to  you, 
and  we  can  talk  and  dance  together." 

They  took  their  places  in  one  of  the  quadrilles,  Leicester 
talking  all  the  time. 

Margaret  Shirley  had  been  his  playmate  in  childhood, 
his  friend  and  favorite  always,  and  they  had  corresponded 
in  all  his  wanderings  over  the  world ;  but  somehow  in 
this,  their  first  meeting,  they  did  not  get  on  so  very  well 
after  all.  Margaret  was,  naturally,  taciturn  as  an  Indian, 
and  the  habit  seemed  to  have  grown  with  her  growth, 
and  to  all  his  questions  she  would  return  none  but  the 
briefes*  and  quietest  answers. 

"Oh,  confound  your  monosyllables!"  muttered  Lei- 
cester, as  he  led  her  down  to  supper,  and  watched  Tom 
and  Vic  chatting  and  laughing  away  opposite  as  if  there 
were  nobody  in  the  world  but  themselves.  What  a  lovely 
face  she  had  !  and  how  all  the  gentlemen  in  the  room 
seemed  to  flock  round  her  like  flies  round  a  drop  of  honey  ! 
Leicester  was  too  much  of  an  artist  not  to  have  a  perfect 
passion  for  beauty  in  whatever  shape  it  came  ;  and  though 
he  could  admire  a  diamond  in  the  rough,  he  certainly 

10 


^ 


\-^ 


r ,( 


W4  ifi4 


ikf' 


m 


i' 


!( 


■  :i 


11 


>      ! 


il> 


t  , 


)■ 


146 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


would  have  admired  the  same  diamond  far  more  in  splen- 
did setting.  He  might  love  Barbara  with  his  heart ;  but 
he  loved  Vic  already  with  his  eyes.  Barbara  was  the 
dark  daughter  of  the  earth  ;  this  fairy  sprite  seemed  a 
vision  from  a  better  land.  He  was  not  worthy  of  her,  he 
felt  that ;  but  yet  what  an  eclat  there  would  be  in  his 
carrying  off  this  reigning  belle ;  and  with  the  wily 
tempter  whispering  a  thousand  such  tho^'^fhts  in  his  ear, 
he  went  back  to  the  ball-room,  and,  claiming  her  promise, 
led  her  away  from  Tom,  to  improve  her  acquaintance 
before  the  quadrille  commenced. 

The  ball-room  was  by  this  time  oppressively  warm,  so 
they  strayed  into  the  music-room,  where  a  lady  sat  sing- 
ing with  a  group  around  her,  and  from  thence  on  to  the 
cool  conservatory,  where  the  moonlight  shone  in  through 
the  arched  windows  ;  and  the  words  of  the  song — Tenny- 
son's "Maud "--came  floating  on  the  perfume  of  the 
flowers. 

"Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown; 
Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone  : 
And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted  abroad, 
And  the  musk  of  the  roses  blown. 
«  «  «  «  « 

"Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls, 

Come  hither,  the  dancers  are  gone, 
In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls, 

Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one  : 
Shiue  out  little  head,  sunning  over  with  curls. 

To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun." 

31  Je  by  si<^3  they  stood  together  in  the  moonlight,  she 
in  a  cloud  of  white  lace  and  lustrous  pearls,  the  little  head 
"sunning  over  with  curls,"  and  the  fair  face  looking 
dreamy  and  sad  as  she  listened — he  leaning  against  the 
window,  and  watching  her  with  his  heart  in  his  eyes. 
They  had  been  talking  at  first  of  the  ball,  of  Castle  Cliffe, 
of  his  wanderings ;  but  they  had  fallen  into  silence  to 
sten  to  the  song. 

"Lovely  thing,  is  it  not?"  she  asked,  looking  up  at 
last. 

"Yes  1 "  said  Leicester,  thinking  of  herself,  and  feeling 
at  mat  moment  there  was  no  other  "  Maud'  for  him  in 
the  wr/ld  but  her. 


^m 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


1 47 


more  in  splen- 
his  heart ;  but 
rbara  was  the 
rite  seemed  a 
rthy  of  her,  he 
)uld  be  in  his 
with  the  wily 
hts  in  his  ear, 
g  her  promise, 
acquaintance 

vely  warm,  so 
lady  sat  singf- 
ence  on  to  the 
)ne  in  through 
song — Tenny- 
:rfume  of  the 


ad, 


uris, 


loonlight,  she 
:he  little  head 
face  looking 
ig  against  the 

in   his  eyes. 

Castle  Cliffe, 
to  silence  to 

ooking  up  at 

f,  and  feeling 
I '  for  him  in 


**We  had  better  go  back  to  the  ball-room,  I  think,  Mr. 
Cliffe.  If  I  am  not  greatly  mistaken  our  quadrille  is  com 
mencing." 

* '  How  formally  you  call  me  Mr.  Cliffe  ;  and  yet  we  are 
cousins." 

"Oh,  that  is  only  a  polite  fiction  !  You  are  no  more 
my  cousin  than  you  are  my  brother  I " 

"  Yet,  I  think  you  might  drop  the  mister.  Leicester  is 
an  easy  name  to  say." 

"Is  it?" 

"Try  it,  and  see  !  " 

"If  it  ever  comes  natural,  perhaps  I  may,"  said  the 
young  lady,  with  composure;  "but  certainly  not  now. 
There!  it  is  the  quadrille,  and  I  know  we  will  be  late." 

But  they  were  not  late,  and  came  in  time  to  lead  off  the 
set  with  spirit.  Somewhere,  ugly  old  Time  was  mowing 
down  his  tens  of  thousands  ;  but  it  certainly  was  not  in 
Shirley  House,  where  the  gas-lit  moments  flew  by  all  too 
quickly,  until  the  dim  dawn  began  to  steal  in,  and  car- 
riages were  called  for,  and  the  most  successful  ball  of  the 
season  came  to  an  end. 

Back  in  his  own  room,  Leicester  Cliffe  was  feverishly 
pacing  u^.  and  down,  with  a  war  going  on  in  his  own 
heart.  A  vision  rose  before  him  of  pearls  and  floating 
lace,  golden  curls,  blue  eyes,  and  the  face  of  a  smiling 
angel — a  reigning  belle,  and  one  of  the  richest  heiresses  in 
England — all  to  be  his  for  the  asking.  But  with  it  there 
came  another  vision — the  Nun's  Grave  under  the  gloomy 
yews ;  the  dark,  wild  gipsy  standing  beside  him,  while 
he  carved  her  name  and  his  together  on  the  old  tree  ;  his 
own  words,  "When  I  prove  false  to  you,  I  pray  God  that 
I  may  die  ;  "  and  the  dreadful  fire  that  had  filled  her  eyes, 
and  the  dreadful  "Amen  '  she  had  emphatically  uttered. 

The  skein  had  run  fair  hitherto,  but  the  tangle  was 
coming  now  ;  and,  quite  unable  to  see  how  he  was  to 
unwind  it,  he  lay  down  on  his  bed  at  last.  But  Leicester 
Cli£fe  did  not  sleep  much  that  morning. 


I    I' 


X'-1i,,. 


148 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


I      ►  : 


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CHAPTER  XVII. 


OFF   WITH    THE    OLD    LOVK. 


The  daintiest  of  little  Swiss  clocks  on  a  gilded  mantel- 
piece was  beginning  to  pl:*y  the  "Sophia  Waltz,"  prepar- 
atory to  striking  eleven,  and  Lady  Agnes  Shirley  looked 
up  at  it  with  an  impatient  irown. 

The  Swiss  clock  and  the  gilded  mantelpiece  were  in 
the  breakfast  parlor  of  Shirley  House  ;  and  in  p  great 
carved  arm-chair,  cushion'^d  in  violet  velvet,  before  a 
sparkling  coal  fire,  sat  Lady  Agres,  She  had  just  arisen; 
and  in  her  pretty  morning  dress  of  a  warm  rose  tint,  lined 
and  edged  with  snow-white  fur,  the  blonde  hair,  which 
Time  was  too  gallant  to  touch  with  silver,  and  only  ven- 
tured  to  thin  out  a  little  at  the  parting,  brushed  in  the  old  P 
fashion  off  the  smooth  low  forehead,  and  hidden  under,  a 
gauzy  affair  of  black  lace  and  ribbons,  which  she  was  , 
pleased  to  call  a  morning-cap,  a  brooch  of  cluster  dia- 
monds sparkling  on  her  neck,  and  her  daintily  slippered 
feet  resting  on  a  violet  velvet  ottoman,  she  looked  like  an 
exquisite  picture  in  a  c-irved  oak  frame. 

At  her  elbow  was  a  little  round  stand,  covered  with 
the  whitest  of  damask,  whereon  stood  a  porcelain  cup 
half  filled  with  chocolate,  a  tiny  glass,  not  much  larger 
than  a  thimble,  filled  with  cognac,  a  little  bird  swimming 
in  rich  sauce,  anH  a  plate  of  oyster  pate.  But  the  lady 
did  not  eat ;  she  only  stirred  the  cold  chocolate  with  the 
golden  spoon,  looked  dreamily  .  .to  the  fire;  and  waited. 

Last  night,  before  the  ball  broke  up,  she  had  directed 
a  certain  gentleman  to  call  next  morning  and  discuss 
with  her  a  certain  important  matter ;  but  it  was  eleven, 
and  he  had  not  called  yet ;  and  so  she  sat  with  her  un- 
tasted  breakfast  before  her,  and  waited  and  thought.  She 
thought  of  another  morning,  more  than  eighteen  years 
ago,  when  she  had  sat  and  waited  for  another  young 
gentleman,  to  talk  to  him  on  the  very  same  subject — 
matrimony.     Eighteen  years  ago  she  had  found  the  young         % 


■W 


t  II 


•ilded  mantel- 
altz, "  prepar- 
Ihirley  looked 

iece  were  in 
id  in  p  great 
vet,  before  a 
d  just  arisen; 
ose  tint,  lined 
3  hair,  which 
nd  only  ven- 
led  in  the  old 
iden  under,  a 
lich  she  was 
cluster  dia- 
ily  slippered 
3oked  like  an 

overed  with 
orcelain  cup 
much  larger 
d  swimming 
ut  the  lady 
ate  with  the 
and  waited, 
had  directed 
and  discuss 
was  eleven, 
vith  her  un- 
ought.  She 
hteen  years 
ither  young 
le  subject — 
id  the  young 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


[49 


gentleman  obstinate  and  refractory,  and  herself  outwitted; 
but,  then,  all  young  gentlemen  were  not  as  self-willed 
as  he,  and  she  had  great  hopes  of  the  particular  one 
waited  for  this  morning.  So,  tapping  her  slippered  foot 
on  the  ottoman,  and  beating  the  devil's  tattoo  with  her 
spoon,  she  alternately  watched  the  Swiss  clock  and  red 
cinders  falling  from  the  grate,  until  the  door  was  flung 
open  by  a  footman,  and  "  Mr.  Cliffe"  was  announced  in 
a  stentorian  voice.  And,  hat  in  hand,  Leicester  Cliffe 
stood  before  her  the  next  moment. 

"  Punctual  !  "  said  Lady  Agnes,  glancing  at  the  time- 
piece, and  languidly  holding  out  her  hand.  "  I  told  you 
to  come  early,  and  it  is  half-past  eleven  o'clock ! " 

"Ten  thousand  pardons,  but  it  is  all  the  fault  of  the 
people  at  the  hotel,  I  assure  you  ;  I  gave  orders  to  be 
called  at  ten  precisely  ;  but  it  was  nearer  eleven  when  the 
waiter  came.     Am  I  forgiven  }  " 

"You've  kept  me  vvaiting  half  an  hour,  and  I  detest 
people  who  make  me  wait ;  but  I  think  I  can  forgive  you. 
Take  a  seat  near  the  fire  ;  the  morning  is  chilly." 

"And  how  are  the  young  ladies.?"  inquired  Leicester, 
as  he  obeyed  ;  "not  over-fatigued,  I  trust,  after  the  ball  ? " 

"  I  cannot  answer  for  Margaret,  who  is  probably  asleep 
yet ;  but  Victoria  came  to  my  room  fully  two  hours  ago, 
dressed  for  a  canter  in  the  park.  Quite  true,  I  assure  you, 
my  dear  Leicester — it  is  the  most  energetic  child  in  the 
world  !     Will  you  have  a  cup  of  coffee  ?  " 

"  Not  any,  thank  you.  I  have  breakfasted.  Miss  Shirley 
is  certainly  a  modern  miracle  to  get  up  so  early  ;  but 
perhaps  to-day  is  an  exception." 

"  Not  at  all !  Victoria  is  an  early  bird,  and  constantly 
rises  at  some  dismal  hour  in  the  early  morning,"  said 
Lady  Agnes,  with  a  shrug.  "Shall  I  ever  forget  the 
first  morning  after  her  arrival  at  Castle  Cliffe,  when,  on 
going  to  her  room  at  sunrise,  I  found  her  making  her  bed, 
like  any  chamoer-maid  !  I  believe  you  never  saw  her 
before  last  night." 

"  I  never  had  that  pleasure  I  but  I  knew  her  imme- 
diately. There  is  a  picture  at  the  castle  of  a  small  child 
with  blue  eyes  and  long  curls,  and  it  is  like  her,  only  Miss 
Shirley  is  far  lovelier." 

Lady  Agnes  lifted  her  keen  eyes  from  the  fire  with  a 
quick,  eager  sparkle. 


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WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


"Ah,  you  think  her  lovely,  then  !" 

**  Lady  Agnes,  who  could  look  at  her  and  think  other- 
wise? 

"You  are  right.  Victoria  is  beautiful,  as  half  the  young 
men  in  our  set  know  to  their  cost.  Ah,  she  is  a  finished 
coquette,  is  my  handsome  granddaughter  I  Who  do  you 
think  proposed  for  her  last  night?  " 

"I  cannot  imagme.** 

"The  young  Marquis  de  St.  Hilary,  whom  she  knew 
long  ago  in  France.  He  spoke  to  me  in  the  handsomest 
manner  first,  and  having  obtained  my  consent — fori  knew 
perfectly  well  what  the  answer  would  be — proposed." 

"And  the  answer  was — ?"  said  Leicester,  with  a  slight 
and  conscious  smile. 

"  No,  of  course  !  Had  I  dreamed  for  a  moment  it  could 
have  been  anything  else,  rest  assured  the  Marquis  de  St. 
Hilary  would  never  have  offered  his  hand  and  name  to 
my  granddaughter.  There  is  but  one  name  I  shall  ever 
be  glad  to  see  Victoria  Shirley  bear,  and  that  is — Cliffe  !  " 

"Now  it  is  coming!"  thought  Leicester,  suppressing 
a  smile  with  an  effort,  and  looking  with  gravity  at  the 
fire. 

Lady  Agnes,  leaning  back  in  the  violet  velvet  arm-chair 
eyed  her  young  kinsman  askance.  Hers  was  really  an 
eagle  glance — sharp,  sidelong,  piercing  ;  and  now  she  was 
reconnoitering  the  enemy,  like  a  skillful  general,  before 
beginning  the  attack.     But  the  handsome  face  baffled  her. 

It  was  as  emotionless  as  a  waxed  mask,  and  she  bent 
over  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  with  a  slight  laugh. 

"What  a  boy  it  is  !  sitting  there  as  unreadable  as  an 
oracle,  without  a  sign  ;  and  yet  he  knows  all !  " 

"All  what.  Lady  Agnes?  " 

"  Nonsense  !  I  am  not  going  to  have  any  fencing  here  •, 
so  sheathe  your  sword,  and  let  us  have  the  whole  thing, 
and  in  plain  English.  Cf  course.  Sir  Roland  has  told  you 
all  about  it." 

"Madam,"  stammered  Leicester,  really  at  a  loss. 

'•'There,  don't  blush  !  Victoria  herself  could  not  have 
done  it  more  palpably.  Of  course,  as  I  have  before  said, 
Sir  Roland  has  told  you  the  whole  matter ;  the  object  of 
my  invitation,  in  short.  Yes,  your  face  tells  it ;  I  see 
he  has !  " 

"  Lady  Agnes,  I  have  read  your  letter." 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


»s« 


d  think  other- 
half  the  young 
3  is  a  finished 
Who  do  you 


)m  she  knew 
e  handsomest 
it — for  I  knew 
)roposed. " 
,  with  a  slight 

>ment  it  could 
Jarquis  de  St. 
and  name  to 
B  I  shall  ever 
t  is— Cliffe  !  " 
,  suppressing 
gravity  at  the 

Ivet  arm-chair 
vas  really  an 
I  now  she  was 
;neral,  before 
:e  baffled  her. 
and  she  bent 
augh. 

adable  as  an 
1!" 

fencing  here ; 
whole  thing, 
I  has  told  you 

t  a  loss, 
uld  not  have 
3  before  said, 
the  object  of 
ills  it;   I  see 


'4 


**  So  much  the  better.  I  need  not  waste  time  makings 
a  revelation  ;  and  now,  what  do  you  think  of  it  ?  " 

"  Your  ladyship,  I  have  not  had  time  to  think  of  it  at 
all.  Consider,  I  have  seen  Miss  Shirley  last  night  for 
the  first  time." 

"What  of  it?  On  the  Continent  the  bridegroom  only 
sees  his  bride  when  they  stand  before  the  altar." 

"  But  this  is  England,  Lady  Agnes,  where  we  have  quite 
another  way  of  doing  those  things.  I  am  a  true-born 
Briton,  and  Miss  Shirley  is " 

"French  to  the  core  of  her  heart,  and  with  an  implicit 
faith  in  the  Continental  way  of  doing  those  things,  as  you 
call  it.  You  saw  her  last  night  for  the  first  time.  True. 
But  the  sight  was  satisfactory,  I  trust." 

"  Eminently  so  ;  yet " 

"Yet  what?" 

"Lady  Agnes,"  said  Leicester,  laughing,  yei  coloring  a 
little  under  the  cold,  keen  gaze  of  the  woman  of  the  world, 
"there  is  an  old-fashioned  prejudice  in  favor  of  love  before 
marriage,  and  you  will  allow  we  have  not  had  much  time 
to  fall  in  love  with  each  other." 

"  Bah  !  "  said  Lady  Agnes,  with  supreme  scorn.  **  Is 
that  all  ?  How  many  times  in  your  life,  my  dear  Leicester, 
have  you  been  in  love  before  this  ? " 

Leicester  laughed,  and  shook  back  his  fair,  clustering 
hair. 

"It  is  past  counting,  your  ladyship." 

"And  how  many  of  these  lady-loves  have  you  mar- 
ried ? " 

"  Rather  a  superfluous  question,  I  should  think,  Lady 
Agnes. " 

"Answer  it!" 

*'  Not  one,  of  course." 

Again  Lady  Agnes  shrugged  her  shoulders,  with  her 
peculiar,  scornful  laugh. 

"  *  We  have  met,  we  have  loved,  and  we  have  parted.* 
That  is  the  burden  of  one  of  Victoria's  songs.  And,  of 
course,  your  heart  was  broken  long  ago,  after  all  those 
sharp  blows  upon  it  ? " 

"I  am  not  aware  that  it  was.  It  feels  all  right — beats 
much  the  same  as  usual.  I  never  heard  of  a  man  with  a 
broken  heart  in  all  my  life  !  " 

**  Neither  have  I.     And  so,  Mr.  Cliflfe,  as  you've  had 


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152 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


love  enough  without  marriage,  suppose  you  try  marriage 
without  love  ;  that  sentiment  will  come  afterward,  believe 
me." 

"You  know  best,  of  course.  I  bow  to  your  superior 
judgment,  Lady  Agnes,"  said  Leicester,  bending  to  hide 
an  irrepressible  smile. 

"Love  is  all  very  fine,  and  excessively  useful  in  its 
place,"  said  Lady  Agnes,  leaning  back  with  the  air  of  one 
entering  upon  an  abstruse  subject ;  "the  stock  and  trade 
with  which  poets  and  authors  set  up  business,  and  with- 
out which  I  don't  know  how  the  poor  wretches  would  ever 
get  along.  It  is  also  well  enough  in  real  life ;  for  you 
must  know  I  believe  in  the  existence  of  such  a  feeling 
when  in  its  proper  place,  and  kept  in  due  bounds,  but  not 
at  all  indispensable  to  the  happiness  of  married  life.  For 
instance,  I  made  a  mariage  de  convenance.  Dr.  Shirley 
was  twenty  years  my  senior,  and  I  had  not  seen  him  half 
a  dozen  times  when  I  accepted  him,  and,  of  course,  did 
not  care  a  straw  for  him  in  that  way  ;  yet  I  am  sure  we 
got  along  extremely  well  together,  and  never  had  a 
quarrel  in  our  lives.  Then  there  was  Sir  Roland  and 
your  mother.  You  know  very  well  they  married,  not 
for  love,  but  because  it  was  an  eminently  proper  match, 
and  she  wanted  a  guardian  for  her  son — yourself;  yet 
how  contentedly  they  lived  together  always.  Oh,  my 
dear  Leicester,  if  that  is  all  your  objection,  pray  don't 
mention  it  again,  for  it  is  utterly  absurd  !  " 

"Sol  perceive,"  said  Leicester,  dryly.  "But  is  your 
ladyship  quite  certain  Miss  Shirley  will  agree  with  you  in 
all  these  views  ?  Suppose  she  has  what  is  called  a  prior 
engagement  ? " 

Lady  Agnes  drew  herself  up,  and  fixed  her  cold  blue 
eyes  proudly  on  his  face. 

"The  idea  is  simply  absurd  !  Miss  Shirley  has  nothing 
of  the  sort.  My  granddaughter — my  proud,  pure-minded 
Victoria — stoop  to  such  a  thing  as  a  clandestine  attach- 
ment for  any  man  !  Sir,  if  any  one  else  had  uttered  such 
an  idea,  I  should  have  considered  it  an  insult !  " 

"  Pardon.     I  had  no  intention  to  offend." 

"Perhaps" — still  with  hauteur — "  perhaps  you  judge 
her  by  yourself;  perhaps  you  have  some  prior  attach- 
ment which  causes  all  these  scruples.  If  so,  speak  the 
word,  and  you  have  heard  the  last  you  will  ever  hear 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


'53 


try  marriage 
ward,  believe 

^our  superior 
iding  to  hide 

useful  in  its 
he  air  of  one 
ck  and  trade 
;s,  and  with- 
s  would  ever 
ife ;  for  you 
ch  a  feeling 
nds,  but  not 
ed  life.     For 

Dr.  Shirley 
een  him  half 
f  course,  did 
am  sure  we 
ever  had  a 
Roland  and 
Harried,  not 
oper  match, 
3urself;  yet 
s.     Oh,  my 

pray  don't 

But  is  your 
with  you  in 
died  a  prior 

r  cold  blue 

las  nothing 
ure-minded 
ine  attach- 
ttered  such 


you  judge 

for  attach- 

speak  the 

ever  hear 


*T- 


from  me  or  any  jne  else  on  this  subject.  The  heiress  of 
Castle  Cliffe,"  said  Lady  Agnes,  a  flush  crimsoning  her 
delicate  face,  **  is  not  to  be  forced  on  any  man  !  " 

Oh,  Barbara  !  his  heart  went  back  with  a  bound  to  the 
cottage  by  the  sea,  but  never  before  had  your  power  over 
him  been  so  feeble  !  What  would  this  satirical  kins- 
woman, this  grand  and  scornful  lady,  say  if  he  stood  be- 
fore her,  like  a  great  schoolboy,  and  blushingly  blurted 
out  his  grand  passion  for  the  fisherman's  daughter?  His 
cheek  reddened  at  the  very  thought ;  and  feeling  that  the 
eagle  eyes  were  piercing  him  like  needles,  he  looked  up 
and  confronted  them  with  a  gaze  quite  as  unflinching  and 
almost  as  haughty. 

"You  are  somewhat  inconsistent.  Lady  Agnes.  You 
gave  me  carte  blanche  a  moment  ago  to  love  as  many  as 
I  pleased." 

"  I  gave  you  absolution  for  the  past,  not  indulgence  for 
the  future.  With  Leicester  Cliffe  and  his  amours  I  have 
nothing  to  do,  but  the  husband  of  my  granddaughter 
must  be  true  to  her  as  the  needle  to  the  North  Star." 

He  bowed  in  haughty  silence.  Lady  Agnes  looked  at 
him  searchingly,  and  calmed  down. 

"If  we  commence  at  daggers  drawn,"  she  said,  still 
laughing  her  satirical  laugh,  "we  will  certainly  end  in 
war  to  the  knife.  Listen  to  me,  Leicester,  my  nephew, 
the  last  of  the  Cliffes,  and  learn  why  it  is  that  this  marriage 
is  so  dear  to  my  heart — why  it  has  been  my  dream  by  day 
and  by  night  since  I  first  saw  Victoria.  Some  of  the 
noblest  names  in  the  peerage  have  been  laid  this  winter 
at  my  granddaughter's  feet,  and  by  me  rejected — she,  the 
most  dutiful  child  in  the  world,  never  objecting.  You 
know  what  an  heiress  she  is — worth  at  least  twenty  thou- 
sand a  year ;  and  do  you  think  I  would  willingly  let  the 
miUions  of  our  family  go  to  swell  the  rent-roll  of  some  im- 
poverished foreign  duke  or  spendthrift  English  earl  ?  You 
are  the  last,  except  my  son  and  Sir  Roland,  bearing  the 
name  of  Cliffe  ;  they  will  never  marry,  and  I  don't  want 
a  name  that  existed  before  the  Conqueror  to  pass  from 
our  branch  of  the  family.  By  your  marriage  with  my 
granddaughter,  the  united  fortunes  of  the  Cliffes  and  Shir- 
ley's will  mingle,  and  the  name  will  descend,  noble  and 
honored,  to  posterity,  as  it  has  been  honored  in  the  past. 
It  is  for  you  to  decide  whether  these  hopes  are  to  be  real- 


!  ■ 


*1i'^i    i 


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I  .11  I 


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l\r 


;4 


]:; 


>54 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


ized  or  disappointed.  Victoria  has  no  will  but  that  of  her 
natural  guardians,  and  your  decision  must  be  quick ;  for 
I  am  determined  she  shall  leave  town  engaged. " 

"You  shall  have  my  answer  to-night,"  said  Leicester, 
rising  and  taking  his  hat. 

"That  is  well  !  we  go  to  the  theater  to-night,  and  you 
may  come  to  our  box.' 

"  I  shall  not  fail  to  do  so.     Until  then,  au  revoir  !" 

Lady  Agnes  held  out  her  hand  with  a  gracious  smile, 
but  he  just  touched  it  and  ran  downstairs.  As  he  passed 
♦hrongh  the  lower  hall  the  library  door  stood  ajar,  aiid  he 
caught  sight  of  a  figure  sitting  in  +he  r-^ccss  of  a  window. 
It  was  Margaret,  ho'ding  a  book  listlessly  in  one  hand, 
while  the  other  supported  her  cheek.  She  was  looking 
out  at  the  square,  where  a  German  band  was  playing 
"  Love  Not,"  and  her  face  wore  a  look  so  lonely  and  so 
sad  that  it  touched  him  to  the  heart.  If  Leicester  Cliffo 
had  one  really  pure  feeling  for  any  human  being,  it  was, 
strangely  enough,  for  this  plain,  silent  cousin  of  his,  whom 
nobody  ever  noticed. 

He  went  in,  and  was  bending  over  her,  with  his  fail 
hair  touching  her  cheek,  before  ohe  heard  him. 

"Maggie — little  cousin — what  is  the  matter?" 

She  started  up  with  a  suppressed  cry,  her  dark  face  turn- 
ing, for  a  moment,  brightest  crimson,  and  then  white, 
even  to  the  lips. 

'^  Oh,  Leicester  !  "  she  cried,  laying  her  hand  on  her  fast' 
throbbing  heart,  "how  could  you  startle  me  so  ?  " 

"  Did  1  ?  I  am  sorry.  What  a  nervous  little  puss,  it  is  1 
Her  gracious  majesty  upstair^  told  me  you  were  asleep." 

"  For  shame,  sir  !     Have  you  been  with  Lady  Agnes  ?  " 

"  Oh,  haven't  I  ?  "said  Leicester,  making  a  slight  grimace. 
What  are  you  doing  here  alone  ?  Why  are  you  not  out 
riding  with  your  cousin  ?  " 

"  I  prefer  being  here.     Won't  you  sit  dovn  ? " 

"  No.  What  makes  you  so  pale  ?  I  remember,  long  ago, 
when  we  played  hide-and-seek  together  in  the  old  halls  of 
Castle  Clifife,  you  had  cheeks  like  rose-berries,,  but  they 
aire  as  white  as  those  lace  curtains  now. 

"  '  Oh,  rare  pale  Ivlargaret  I 
Oh,  fair  pale  Margar'^t  I ' 

tell  your  old  playfellow  what  it  Is  ail  about." 


I  V* 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


'55 


ut  that  of  her 

be  quick ;  for 

:ed." 

id  LeicesteFj 

ght,  and  you 

revoir  /  " 
Lcious  smile, 
As  he  passed 
'.  ajar,  and  he 
)f  a  window, 
n  one  hand, 
was  looicing 
was  playing 
)nely  and  so 
icester  Cliffo 
eing-,  it  was, 
of  his,  whom 

vith  his  fail 

r?" 

rk  face  turn- 
then  white, 

i  on  her  fast- 

;o?' 

e  puss;  it  is  1 

'ere  asleep." 

dy  Agnes  ?" 

jht  grimace. 

'ou  not  out 


-r,  long  ago, 
J  old  halls  of 
is.,  but  they 


^ 


She  glanced  up  for  a  moment  at  the  handsome  fa  je  bend- 
ing over  her,  and  then  stooped  lower  over  her  book,  turning 
almost  paler  than  before. 

"  My  good  little  cousin,  tell  me  what  it  means." 

"Nothing." 

"I  know  better.  Young  ladies  don't  go  about  like 
white  shadows,  with  as  little  life  in  them  as  one  of  those 
marble  statues,  for  nothing.     Are  you  ill  ?  " 

"No." 

"Are  you  happy  ?" 

"Yes." 

**  Is  that  grand  sultana  upstairs  good  to  you  ?  " 

"Very." 

"  And  the  princess  royal — how  does  she  treat  you  ? " 

"Cousiii  Victoria  is  like  a  sister." 

"  Then  what,  in  Heaven's  name,  has  crushed  all  the  life 
out  of  little  Maggie  Shirley,  I  romped  with  in  lang  syne .? 
Do  you  know  you're  but  the  ghost  of  your  former  self, 
Maggie.?" 

She  did  not  speak  ;  she  only  held  the  book  close  to  her 
face,  and  something  fell  on  it  and  wet  it. 

There  was  a  tap  on  the  door,  and  a  servant  entered. 

"  Miss  Margaret,  my  lady  wants  you  to  come  and  read 
to  her.  " 

"  I  must  go,  Leicester,     Good-morning!" 

She  was  gone  in  an  instant,  and  Leicester,  feeling  there 
was  a  screw  loose  somewhere,  and,  like  all  of  his  stupid 
sex,  too  blind  to  guess  within  a  mile  of  the  truth,  went 
down  the  steps,  took  his  horse  from  the  groom  in  waiting, 
and  dashed  off  through  the  Park. 

Aft  he  entered  Rotten  Row  he  was  confronted  by  three 
eqiicstrians — Colonf.-l  Shirley,  his  daughter,  and  Tom. 
The  image  of  Victoria  had  been  before  him  all  the  way, 
fashing  in  lace  and  jewels  as  he  had  seen  her  last  night, 
but  now  she  dawned  upon  him  in  quite  another  vision  of 
beauty.  From  her  childhood  the  girl  had  taken  to  riding 
as  naturally  as  she  had  to  sleeping,  and  she  sat  her  spirited 
Arabian  with  as  easy  a  jyrace  as  she  would  have  sat  on  a 
sofa.  Nothing  could  have  been  more  bewitching  than  the 
exquisitely  fitting  habit  of  d?rk-blue  cloth  ;  the  exuberant 
curls  confined  in  a  net,  seeing  that  curls  under  a  riding-hat 
are  an  abomination  ;  her  fair  cheeks  flushed  with  exercise, 
the  violet  eyes  sparkling  and  laughing  with  the  very  hap- 


'56 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


i  i'l 


■'f 


\  1' ■!!  !:f 


ii 


\\')\ 


\' 


I!:   '■ 


. ! 


AM 


piness  of  living  on  such  a  day,  and  the  rosy  lips  all  dimple* 
with  glad  smiles. 

She  touched  her  black-plumed  hat  coquettishly,  a  la 
militaire,  with  her  yellow  gauntletcd  hand,  as  the  young 
gentleman  bowed  before  her. 

"  Well  met,  Cliffe  !  "  said  the  colonel ;  "we  were  just 
speaking  of  you.     Come  home  and  dine  with  us." 

"Thanks.     I  regret  to  say  I  am  already  engaged." 

"To-morrow,  then.  Have  you  any  engagement  for 
to-night  ?     We  are  for  the  theater. " 

"None;  and  I  have  promised  her  ladyship  to  drop 
into  her  box.  Miss  Shirley,  I  need  not  ask  if  you  have 
recovered  from  the  fatigue  of  last  night ;  you  areas  radiant 
as  a  rose." 

"  Oh,  I  am  never  fatigued,"  said  Miss  Shirley,  with  her 
frank  laugh.  "Papa,  come;  Claude  is  impatient.  Au 
revoir,  Mr.  Cliffe."' 

She  looked  back  at  him  with  a  saucy  glance,  waving 
her  hand,  and  the  next  moment  was  dashing  away  out 
of  sight.  And  Leicester  Cliffe  went  to  his  hotel  to  dress 
for  dinner,  with  "  a  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay,"  haunt- 
ing his  mind's  eye,  to  the  exclusion  -f  everything  else — 
the  princess  royal  on  horseback. 

The  dinner-party  at  Lord  Henry  Lisle's  was  a  very 
noisy  and  prolonged  affair  indeed.  Leicester,  thinking 
of  the  theater,  wished  them  all  at  Jericho  a  thousand 
times  before  it  was  over.  The  Rose  of  Sussex  was  toasted 
so  often  in  punch  and  port,  thick  and  sweet,  that  the 
whole  party  were  rather  glorious  when  they  issued  forth 
— Leicester  excepted.  Remembering  his  engagement, 
he  had  not  imbibed  quite  so  much  of  the  "  rosy  "  as  the 
rest,  and  was  all  right  when  he  presented  himself,  ac- 
cording to  order,  at  the  stage-bo  belonging  to  the  Shirleys. 
Lady  Agnes  was  there,  as  usual,  in  a  splendid  toilet ; 
beside  her  sat  Victoria,  looking  like  an  angel  in  moire 
antique  and  emeralds,  with  a  magnificent  opera-cloak 
half  dropping  off  her  bare  and  beautiful  shoulders.  Tom 
was  leaning  devotedly  over  her  »^hair,  talking  nonsense 
very  fast,  at  all  of  which  Miss  Shirley  was  good-natured 
enough  to  laugh  ;  and  Margaret,  very  simply  dressed, 
according  to  custom,  sat  very  still  and  quiet  under  the 
shadow  of  the  curtains.  The  colonel  was  absent ;  and 
Lady  Agnes  received  him  with  gracious  reproo£ 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


'57 


)S  all  dimpled 

Jttishly,   a  la 
s  the  young 

we  were  just 
I  us." 

35:^1116111  for 

hip   to  drop 

if  you  have 

ire  as  radiant 

ey,  with  her 
3atient.     Au 

nee,  waving 
g  away  out 
)tel  to  dress 
jay/'haunt- 
ihing  else — 

vas  a  very 
?r,  thinking 
a  thousand 
was  toasted 
%  that  the 
issued  forth 
igagement, 
3sy  "  as  the 
limself,  ac- 
he Shirleys. 
;idid  toilet ; 
;1  in  moire 
)pera-cloak 
lers.  Tom 
:  nonsense 
od-natured 
y  dressed, 
under  the 
)sent ;  and 


"Lazy  boy!     The  first  act  is  over,  and  you  are  late, 

as  usual!  Such  a  charming  play — 'Undine!'  Tom, 
hold  your  tongue,  and  use  your  eyes,  or  else  go  and  talk 
to  Margaret.  There  she  sits,  like  little  Jack  Horner,  alone 
in  the  corner,  moping  !  " 

Victoria  turned  her  beautiful  face  and  welcomed  him 
with  a  bewildering  smile  ;  and  Tom,  deaf  to  his  aunt's 
hint,  merely  moved  aside  a  little,  while  the  new-comer 
bent  over  her  chair  to  pay  his  respects.  The  wine  he  had 
been  drinking  had  merely  raised  his  spirits  to  an  excel- 
lent talking-point.  Victoria  was  a  good  talker,  too  ;  and 
in  ten  minutes  conversation  was  in  full  flow. 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  this  play — 'Undine'  ?  "  she  was 
asking. 

"Never." 

"  Ah,  it  is  beautiful  !  I  love  it,  because  I  love  Undine 
herself.  Do  you  know,  monsieur,  I  took  a  fancy  to  study 
German  first  for  the  purpose  of  reading  '  Undine '  in  the 
original  !     Look  !  the  curtain  is  rising  now  !  " 

It  went  up  as  she  spoke,  and  showed  the  knight  battling 
with  the  spirits  in  the  enchanted  wood.  Leicester  looked 
at  the  stage  and  smiled. 

"This  first  visit  to  the  theater  since  my  return  to  Eng- 
land reminds  me  of  the  first  time  I  ever  visited  a  theater 
at  all." 

"Do  you  remember  it?  It  must  have  been  a  long 
time  ago  ? " 

"It  is.  It  is  eighteen  years.  I  was  in  a  box  with  Lady 
Agnes  and  my  mother  ;  and  opposite,  sat  Sir  Roland  and 
your  father,  then  Lieutenant  Cliffe,  Lord  Lisle,  and  that 
yellow  lawyer — a  money-lender  he  was  then — Mr.  Sweet. 
It  made  a  vivid  impression  on  me — the  lights,  the  musia> 
the  gay  dresses,  and  the  brilliant  scenery.  I  forget  what 
the  play  was,  but  I  know  the  house  was  crowded,  be- 
cause it  was  the  last  appearance  of  a  beautiful  actress, 
Mademoiselle " 

He  had  been  speaking  with  animation,  but  he  stopped 
suddenly,  for  the  beautiful  face  was  crimson,  and  there 
was  a  quick  uplifting  of  the  haughty  head,  which  reminded 
him  forcibly  of  Lady  Agnes. 

"  Mademoiselle  Vivia,"  she  said,  lifting  her  violet  eyes 
with  a  bright  free  glance  to  his  face.  "My  mother — my 
beautiful  mother,  whom  I  have  never  seen." 


iS8 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


1;!  1 


^^■1 


"  Miss  Shirley,  I  did  not  mean — I  never  thought  I  Can 
you  forgive  me  ?  " 

"  Out  of  my  heart,  monsieur.     See  !  there  is  Undine  !  '* 

She  leaned  forward.  A  tumult  of  applause  shook  the 
house,  and  he  bent  over  too.  There  was  the  sea-coast 
and  the  fisherman's  cottage,  and  there  from  the  sea-foam 
rose  Undine,  robed  in  white,  with  lilies  in  her  hair.  It 
reminded  Tom  Shirley  of  the  Infant  Venus  ;  it  reminded 
Leicester  Cliffe  of  Barbara — the  same,  though  he  did  not 
know  it.  In  the  dazzle  of  the  music,  and  lights,  and  the 
girl  beside  him,  he  had  not  thought  of  her  before  ;  and 
now  her  memory  came  back  with  a  pang,  half  pleasure, 
half  pain.  Somehow,  Victoria's  thoughts,  by  some  mys- 
terious influence,  were  straying  in  the  same  direction  too. 

*' Monsieur  Cliffe,"  she  said,  so  suddenly  lifting  her 
violet  eyes  that  he  was  disconcerted,  "do  you  know 
Barbara  Black  ? " 

The  guilty  blood  flew  to  his  face,  and  he  drew  back  to 
avoid  the  innocent  eyes. 

"I  have  seen  her." 

She  laughed  a  gay  little  mischievous  laugh. 

"  I  know  that !  Tom  told  me  all  about  the  May  Queen, 
and  how  you  were  struck.  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but 
Undine  always  reminds  me  of  Barbara." 

"Does  she?" 

"Yes.  Barbara  was  a  little  water-sprite  herself,  you 
know  ;  and  I  wonder  she  has  not  melted  away  into  a 
miniature  cascade  before  this.  Did  she  ever  tell  you  she 
saved  my  life  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Proud  girl !  Spartan  Barbara  !  Is  she  as  handsome 
as  she  was  long  ago  ?  " 

"She  is  very  handsome." 

Mentally  she  rose  before  him,  as  he  spoke,  in  her 
mimic  chariot,  crowned  and  sceptered,  with  eyes  shining 
like  stars,  and  cheeks  like  June  roses  ;  and  he  drew  still 
further  back,  lest  the  violet  eyes  should  read  his  guilt  in 
his  face.  She  drew  back  a  little  herself,  to  avoid  the  fire 
of  lorgnettes  directed  at  their  box — some  at  the  great  Sus- 
sex heiress,  others  at  the  noble  and  lovely  head  alone. 

"Undine  reminds  me  of  her,"  she  went  on,  "only  Un- 
dine died  of  a  broken  heart ;  and  if  Barbara  were  deceived, 
I  think " 


H 


::.^u^:;i^mam 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


«S9 


ought  I    Can 

is  Undine  ! " 
>e  shook  the 
the  sea-coast 
the  sea-foam 
her  hair.     It 

it  reminded 
h  he  did  not 
fhts,  and  the 
before  ;  and 
[ilf  pleasure, 
J  some  mys- 
irection  too. 
f  lifting  her 
)  you  know 

Irew  back  to 


May  Queen, 
ovv  it  is,  but 


herself,  you 

iway  into  a 

tell  you  she 


s  handsome 


oke,  in  her 
jyes  shining 
e  drew  still 
[  his  guilt  in 
v^oid  the  fire 
le  great  Sus- 
id  alone. 

"only  Un- 
re  deceived, 


^ 


She  stopped  with  a  blush  and  a  laugh. 

"Goon,  Miss  Shirley. " 

•'I  think — but  I  am  foolish,  f^rhaps — that  she  would 
have  revenge  ;  that  she  would  have  it  in  her  to  kill  her 
betrayer,  instead  of  melting  away  into  the  sea  of  neglect 
and  being  heard  of  no  more." 

He  turned  pale  as  he  looked  at  the  stage,  where  stood 
the  false  knight  and  his  high-born  bride,  while  Undine 
floated  away  in  the  moonlight,  singing  her  death-song. 
Again  Victoria  leaned  forward  to  look. 

"Poor,  forsaken  Undine  I  Ah!  how  I  have  half  cried 
my  eyes  out  over  the  story  ! — and  how  I  hate  that  treach- 
erous Huldebrand  !  I  could — could  almost  kill  him  my- 
self!" 

"  Have  you  no  pity  for  him  ?  "  said  Leicester,  turning 
paler,  as  he  identified  himself  with  the  condemned  knight. 
"  Think  how  beautiful  Bertalda  is  ;  and  Undine  was  only 
the  fisherman's  daughter  !  " 

"That  makes  it  all  the  worse  !  Knights  should  have 
nothing  to  do  with  fishermen's  daughters  !  " 

"  Not  even  if  they  are  beautiful  ?  " 

*'  No  ;  eagles  don't  mate  with  birds  of  paradise." 

"  How  haughty  you  are  I  " 

"Not  at  all.  You  know  the  proverb,  'Birds  of  a 
feather.*    Poor  Barbara !  I  do  pity  her  for  being  poor  !  " 

"  Does  wealth  constitute  happiness  ?" 

"  I  don't  know;  but  I  do  know  that  poverty  would 
constitute  misery  for  me.  I  am  thankful  I  am  Victoria 
Shirley,  the  heiress  of  Castle  Cliffe  ;  and  I  would  not  be 
any  one  else  for  the  world  !  " 

She  rose,  as  she  spoke,  with  a  light  laugh.  The  curtain 
had  fallen  on  the  last  scene  of ' '  Undine,"  and  Lady  Agnes 
was  rising,  too. 

"Where  are  you  going?  "  asked  Leicester.  "  Will  you 
not  wait  for  the  afterpiece  ?  " 

"A  comedy  after  'Undir.e' !  How  can  you  suggest 
such  a  thing  !  Oh,  never  mind  me.  I  will  follow  you 
and  grandmamma." 

So  Leicester  gave  his  arm  to  grandmamma,  and  led  her 
forth,  Victoria  gathering  up  her  flowing  robes  and  follow- 
ing. Tom,  who  h'd  long  ago  retreated,  sullen  and  jeal- 
ous, from  the  field,  came  last  with  Margaret. 

The  carriage  was  at  the  pavement ;  the  footman  held 


Pi 


11  li 


it 


!♦ 


, .  I 


'■\ 


I   ':  '  I 


'I     . 


« 


H 


li! 


'!>!'! 


iRi' 


^il!  '^ 


1    i 


f 


R 


t 


li: 


'Hi  Ml 


>  I 


u 


'  i 


1  „  ii: 


n 


;j- 


i6o 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


the  door  open  ;  the  ladie**  v/ere  handed  within — Margaret 
wrapping-  her  mantle  around  her,  and  shrinking  away  into 
a  corner  the  moment  she  entered. 

Victoria  leaned  forward,,  and  held  out  her  snowy  hand, 
with  the  smile  of  an  angel. 

"Good-night,  monsieur.     Pleasant  dreams. " 

He  raised  the  pretty  hand  to  his  lips. 

"They  will  be  enchanting.     I  shall  dream  of  you." 

Lady  Agnes  bent  forward  with  a  look  of  triumph. 

"And  your  answer,  Leicester.  You  were  to  give  it  to- 
night.    Quick!     Yes  or  no." 


CHAPTER  XVHL 


A  DUTIFUL  GRANDDAUGHTER. 


The  drive  home  was  a  silent  one,  or,  at  least,  it  would 
have  been,  only  Victoria  chatted  like  a  magpie  all  the  way. 
Lady  Agnes,  sitting  with  her  face  to  the  horse,  looked 
thoughtful  and  preoccupied;  and  as  for  Margaret,  silence 
was  her  forte. 

Victoria  stopped  at  length,  with  a  pout. 

*'  I  declare  you  are  too  provoking,  grandmamma  ! 
Here  I  have  asked  you  three  times  what  you  thought  of 
the  Countess  Portici,  to-night,  and  her  superb  opals,  and 
you've  never  deigned  to  answer  me  once." 

Her  ladyship,  coming  ^ut  of  a  brown  study,  looked 
at  her  di_>pleased  granddaughter. 

"iMydear,  excuse  me;  I  was  thinking  of  something 
else.     What  were  you  saying  .?  " 

"  Ever  Pj  many  things  ;  but  you  and  Margaret  won't 
spcaK  a  word.  Perhaps  Margaret  is  thinking  of  the  con- 
quest she  made  to-night." 

"What  conquest?"  asked  Lady  Agnes,  looking  sus- 
piciously at  her  niece,  who  sliri.nk  farther  away  as  she 
was  spoken  of,  and  had  on  her  cheeks  two  scarlet  spots 
quite  foreign  to  her  usual  complexion. 

*  Tom,  of  course  I    Could  you  not  see  he  was  her  very 


-Margaret 
away  into 

iwy  hand, 


you." 
nph. 
give  it  to- 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


i6i 


it  would 

the  way, 

e,  looked 

t,  silence 


mamma  ! 
liought  of 
pals,  and 

,    looked 

Dmething 

ret  won't 
the  con- 
king sus- 
y  as  she 
rlet  spots 

her  Very 


humble  and  most  obedient  servant  all  the  evening?     I 
wish  you.  joy  of  your  victory,  Margaret." 

"Thank  you.  You  forget  he  only  came  to  me  in  des- 
peration, because  you  discarded  him,  Cousin  Victoria. 

"  Both  Tom  and  Margaret  know  better  than  to  dream 
of  such  a  thing,"  said  Lady  Agnes,  with  dignity.  "  Tom 
must  marry  a  fortune  ;  for  he  can  only  take  a  poor  wife 
on  the  principle  that  what  won't  keep  one  will  keep  two. 
As  for  Margaret  I  shall  see  that  she  is  properly  settled  in 
life,  after  you  are  married." 

"Oh,  grandmamma!"  said  Vivia,  laughing;  "what 
an  idea !  " 

"A  very  reasonable  idea,  my  dear.  You  expect  to  be 
married  some  time,  I  trust.  And,  apropos  of  flirtations, 
what  do  you  call  your  iete-a-tete  this  evening  with  my 
handsome  nephew  .? " 

"A  cousinly  chat,  grandmamma,  of  course,"  said  the 
young  lady,  demurely. 

"Ah  !  Cousinly  chat !  Precisely  !  And  what  do  you 
think  of  this  new-found  cousin.''" 

Miss  Vivia  shrugged  her  pretty  shoulders  in  very 
French  fashion,  that  had  a  trick  of  grandmamma's  self 
in  it. 

"  I  havL  '^t  had  time  to  think  of  him  at  all.  I  only 
met  him  lasi  night  for  the  first  time,   you  recollect." 

"And  how  long  does  it  take  to  form  your  mighty  opin- 
ions, Mademoiselle  Talleyrand.      Do  you  like  him  .? " 

"  Yes  ;  that  is,  I  don't  know." 

"Do  you  like  him  better  than  the  Marquis  de  St. 
Hilary  ?  " 

"Oh,  grandmamma  !  "  said  Vivia,  blushing  vividly. 

"You  have  changed  your  opinion  if  you  do,"  said 
Lady  Agnes,  a  little  maliciously.  "Long  ago,  when  Sir 
Roland  gave  you  the  pony,  named  Leicester,  after  this 
new-found  cousin,  you  insisted  on  changing  the  name  to 
Claude,  a  name  for  which  you  then  had  an  especial  ad- 
miration.    Do  you  recollect } " 

"Grandmamma  !     I  was  such  a  goose,  then." 

"Exactly.  And  in  six  years  more,  when  you  look 
back,  you  will  think  you  were  just  as  great  a  goose  now. 
Of  course  you  have  decided  that  Leicester  is  handsome?  " 

"There  can  be  but  one  opinion   about   that,"  said  the 
young  lady,  as  the  carriage  stopped  before  the  door,  and 
II 


ii 
i 


i 


!   ;■ 


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she  tripped  lightly  up  the  steps,  humming  an  air  from 
"Undine." 

A  most  aristocratic  and  sleepy  porter  threw  open  the 
door,  and  they  entered  the  brilliantly  lighted  hall. 

Margaret,  with  a  ver}'  brief  good-night,  went  to  her 
room  ;  and  Vivia,  gayly  kissing  her  grandmother,  was 
about  to  follow,  when  that  lady  detained  her,  and  opened 
the  drawing-room  door. 

"  Not  good-night,  Victoria.  It  is  only  ten  o'clock,  and 
too  early  to  think  of  bed.  Come  in  here.  I  have  five 
words  to  say  to  you,  that  may  as  well  be  said  to-night  as 
to-morrow. " 

Very  much  surprised  at  grandmamma's  grave  tone, 
Victoria  followed  her  into  the  deserted  drawing-room,  on 
whose  marble  hearth  a  few  red  embers  still  glowed ;  for 
the  May  evenings  were  chilly,  and  her  ladyship  liked 
fires.  The  girl  sat  down  on  a  low  ottoman,  beside  the 
elder  lady's  couch,  looking  very  pretty,  with  flushed 
cheeks  and  her  brilliant  eyes,  her  golden  hair  falling 
damp  and  uncurled  over  her  shoulders,  from  which  the 
gay  opera-cloak  was  loosely  slipping  to  the  floor.  She 
lifted  up  an  innocent,  inquiring  face  like  that  of  a  little 
child. 

"  What  is  it,  grandmamma?  " 

Lady  Agnes  took  one  tiny,  taper  hand,  spotless  and 
ringless  as   the   free   young  heart.     Miss   Shirley   never 


wore  rings. 


' '  Pretty  little  hand  !  "  she  said,  caressing  it,  the  cold  blue 
eyes  looking  fondly  down  into  the  beautiful  up-turned 
face  ;  "  and  how  well  an  engagement-ring  would  become 
it!" 

"Oh,  grandmamma!" 

"You  expect  to  wear  an  engagement-ring  some 
time,  my  dear  ?  You  do  not  always  expect  to  be  Miss 
Shirley." 

"  I  wish  I  could  be.  It  is  such  a  pretty  name,  I  never 
want  to  change  it !  " 

"Little  simpleton!  If  I  have  my  way,  you  shall 
change  it  within  two  months." 

"Why,  grandmamma  !  " 

"Don't  look  so  astonished,  child.  One  would  think 
you  never  had  such  an  idea  as  marriage  in  your  life." 

"  But,  grandmamma,  I  don't  want  to  be  married  !  "  said 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


163 


mademoiselle,  with  the  prettiest  pout  in  the  world  ;  "it 
is  so  dowdyish  !  And  then  I  am  too  young — I  am  only 
eighteen. " 

"Eighteen  is  an  excellent  marriageable  age,  my  dear 
— I  was  married  a  year  younger  than  that." 

"  Grandmamma,  have  you  tired  of  me  all  of  a  sudden, 
that  you  want  to  send  me  away  ?     What  have  I  done  ?  " 

"  You  great  baby  !  What  has  it  done  !  "  mimicking  the 
young  lady's  tone.  "I  shall  have  you  put  in  pir,afores 
and  sent  back  to  the  nursery,  if  you  don't  learn  to  talk 
sense.  Do  you  know  why  I  have  rejected  all  the  eligible 
offers  you  have  had  this  winter  ?  " 

"Because  you  are  the  dearest,  kindest  grandmamma 
in  the  world,  and  you  knew  your  Vic  did  not  want  to 
accept  any  of  them." 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind  !  They  have  been  rejected  be- 
cause I  have  reserved  you,  since  you  were  twelve  years 
old,  for  another." 

Up  flew  the  flaxen  eyebrows,  wide  opened  the  violet 
eyes,  in  undisguised  amaze. 

"  Since  I  was  twelve  years  old  !  Why,  I  was  only  that 
age  when  I  came  first  from  F^rance." 

"  Right !  And  from  the  first  moment  I  saw  you,  your 
destiny  was  settled  in  my  mind." 

Lady  Agnes  was  certainly  a  wonderful  woman.  She 
ought  to  have  been  at  the  head  of  a  nation  instead  of  at 
the  head  of  the  fashionable  society  of  London.  The  calm 
consciousness  of  triumph  radiated  her  pale  face  now,  and 
she  looked  down  like  an  empress  on  the  flaxen-haired 
fairy  at  her  feet,  smiling,  too,  at  the  look  of  unutterable 
wonder  on  the  pretty  countenance. 

"Can  you  guess  who  this  favored  gentleman  is,  my 
dear?" 

"Guess  !  oh,  dear  me  no,  grandmamma  !  " 

"Try." 

"  It  can't  be — it  can't  be " 

"Who?"  said  Lady  Agnes,  curiously,  as  she  stopped 
with  an  irrepressible  little  laugh." 

"Tom.     You  never  can  mean  Tom,  grandmamma  ?  " 

"Tom  !  Oh,  what  a  child.  You  may  well  call  yourself 
a  goose.  Of  course  not,  you  little  idiot.  I  mean  a  very 
different  person,  indeed — no  one  else  than  Leicester  Cliffe. " 

The  hand  Lady  Agnes   held  was  suddenly  snatched 


f-,  .'' 


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WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


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away,  and  the  g^irl  covered  her  face  with   both,  with  a 
beautiful  movement  of  modesty. 

Lady  Agnes  laughed — her  short,  satirical  laugh. 

"Don't  blush,  dear  child!  There  is  nobody  here  but 
grandmamma  to  see  it.  What  do  you  think  of  your  in- 
tended bridegroom  ?" 

"  To  think  that  I  should  have  laughed  and  talked  with 
him  as  I  did  to-night  "*"  said  Vivia,  in  a  choking  voice,  as  she 
turned  away  her  hidden  face,''  and  he  knowing  this  !  Oh, 
grandmamma,  what  have  you  done  ?  " 

"  Nothing  that  you  need  go  into  hysterics  about !  Are 
you  never  going  to  laugh  and  talk  with  the  person  you 
intend  to  marry?" 

"  She  did  not  speak,  and  the  lady  saw  that  the  averted 
cheek  was  scarlet. 

"You  are  right  in  thinking  he  knows  it.  He  does  ;  I 
told  him  to-day,  and  he  has  consented." 

No  answer. 

"  He  admires  you  exceedingly — he  loves  you,  I  am 
sure,  and  will  tell  you  so  at  the  proper  opportunity. 
Nothing  could  be  more  desirable,  nothing  more  suitable 
than  this  match.  I  have  set  my  heart  on  it,  and  so  has 
Sir  Roland,  for  years.  You  will  be  the  happiest  bride  in 
the  world,  my  daughter." 

The  heiress  of  Castle  Cliffe,  one  hand  still  shading  the 
averted  face,  the  other  again  held  in  grandmamma's  the 
scarlet  cheek  veiled  by  the  falling  hair,  the  graceful  little 
figure  drooping,  never  spoke  or  looked  around. 

' '  He  is  everything  the  most  romantic  maiden  could  wish 
-—young,  handsome,  agreable,  a  man  and  a  gentleman, 
every  inch  !  Then  he  is  a  Cliffe — not  your  cousin,  though  ; 
cc»usins  should  never  marry — and  heir  to  a  fortune  second 
only  to  your  own." 

Still  silent. 

"Child!"  cried  Lady  Agnes,  impatiently,  "what  are 
you  thinking  of.?     Are  you  asleep  ?  do  you  hear  me?  " 

"Yes,  grandmamma." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  answer  ?  You  will  never  dream 
of  refusing,   surely. " 

"No." 

It  came  so  hesitatingly,  though,  that  the  lady,  who  had 
been  leaning  easily  back,  sat  up  very  straight  and  looked 
at  her. 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


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**  Victoria,  I  am  surprised  at  you.  Did  you  ever  dream 
for  a  moment  you  would  be  left  to  choose  any  stray  cox- 
comb, such  as  girls  are  given  to  take  a  fancy  to?  Have 
you  not  always  understood  that  your  marriage  was  to  be 
arranged  by  your  guardians,  myself  and  your  father?  " 

*'  Does  papa  know  of  this  ?  " 

"Certainly.     I  told  him  to-day,  after  dinner." 

Vivia  remembered,  now,  that  papa  and  grandmamma 
had  been  closeted  in  close  converse  for  over  an  hour, 
after  dinner ;  and  how  the  colonel  had  come  out,  looking 
very  grave,  and  had  given  her  a  glance  in  passing,  half- 
tender,  half-mirthful,  half-sad  ;  had  declined  accompanying 
them  to  the  theater  and  had  solaced  himself  with  cigars 
all  the  rest  of  the  afternoon.  She  starte-'  up  now  at  the 
recollection. 

*  *  Grandmamma,  I  must  see  papa.  I  must  speak  to  papa 
about  this  to-night !  " 

Lady  Agnes  sat  up  very  stately  and  displeased. 

"Is  it  necessary  you  should  speak  to  him  before  you 
answer  me.  Miss  Shirley  !  " 

"Oh,  grandmamma,  don't  be  angry  !  But  I  feel  so — so 
strange ;  and  it  is  all  so  sudden  and  queer." 

"Remember,  Victoria,  that  I  have  set  my  heart  on  this 
matter,  and  that  it  has  been  set  on  it  for  years.  Take  care 
you  do  not  disappoint  me. " 

Victoria  knelt  softly  down,  her  beautiful  eyes  filled  with 
tears, and  touched  the  still  smooth  white  hand  with  her  lips. 

"Grandmamma,  you  know  I  wouldnot  disappoint  you 
for  all  the  world.  Surely,  it  is  as  little  as  I  can  do,  after 
all  these  years  of  care  and  love,  to  yield  my  will  to  yours. 
But,  I  must — I  must  see  papa  !  " 

"Very  well.  You  will  find  him  in  the  library,  I  dare 
say  ;  but  I  must  have  your  answer  to-night." 

"  You  shall.     I  will  be  back  here  in  ten  minutes." 

"That  is  my  dutiful  little  granddaughter,"  said  Lady 
Agnes,  stooping  to  touch  the  pretty  pleading  lips  with 
her  own.      "Go,  then  ;  I  will  wait  here." 

The  fairy  figure  with  the  golden  hair  floated  down  the 
staircase,  through  the  hall,  and  into  the  library.  An  odor 
met  her  at  the  door — not  the  odor  of  sanctity,  but  the 
fragrant  one  of  a  cigar,  heralding  the  gentleman  who  sat 
in  the  crimson  arm-chair  by  the  window. 

The  gas  has  been  turned  down,  and  one  flickering  ray 


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alone  pierced  the  darkness  like  a  lance.  The  lace  curtains 
had  been  drawn  back,  and  the  pale  stars  shone  in  and 
rested  on  the  colonel,  sitting  with  his  back  to  the  door, 
and  his  eyes  looking  up  at  their  tremulous  beauty.  One 
hand  rested  on  a  paper  on  his  knee  ;  the  other  absently 
held  a  cigar  that  had  gone  out  long  ago.  The  handsome 
and  ever  gay  face  looked  strangely  pale  and  grave,  and 
he  did  not  see  the  figure  floating  through  the  shadowy 
room,  with  the  wan  green  emeralds  flashing  feebly  on 
the  white  neck,  until  it  sank  down  with  fi  cry  of,  "Oh, 
papa !  "  beside  him  ;  and  a  pretty,  flushed  face  and  a 
shower  of  gold  hair  fell  bowed  on  his  knee.  Then  he 
looked  down  at  it,  not  in  surprise,  but  with  the  same 
glance,  half  tender,  half  gay,  half  sad. 

"  Well,  Vivia,  it  has  come  at  last,  and  my  little  girl  has 
found  out  she  is  no  longer  a  child." 

It  was  a  characteristic  trifle — character  is  always  shown 
best  in  trifles — that  while  Lady  Agnes,  overlooking  in 
her  grand  and  lofty  way  the  very  memory  of  so  plebeian 
a  personage  as  the  dead  French  actress,  always  called 
her  granddaughter  Victoria,  not  Vivia,  the  colonel  scarcely 
ever  thought  of  calling  her  anything  else. 

"Papa  !  papa!  "  sobbed  Vivia,  her  voice  losing  itself 
in  a  sob  ' '  i  never  thought  of  this  !  " 

He  laid  his  hand  lovingly  on  the  little  bowed  head. 

"  I  have  been  sharper-sighted  than  you,  Vivia,  and 
have  foreseen  what  was  coming  long  ago,  though  my 
lady-mother  has  never  given  me  credit  for  so  much  pene- 
tration.    She  has  told  you  to-night,  then  ? " 

"This  moment,  papa." 

"  And  what  has  my  Vivia  said  ?  " 

"Oh,  papa  !  Do  you  think  I  could  say  anything  until 
I  had  seen  you  ?  " 

"My  darling,  I  have  not  one  word  to  say  in  the  matter. 
Vivia  shall  please  herself." 

"■  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  to  say  !  I  don't  know  what  to 
do  !  It  is  all  so  sudden  and  so  unexpected  !  and  I  don't 
want  to  be  married  at  all !  Oh,  I  wish  I  were  back  in 
my  beautiful  France,  in  my  dear,  dear  old  convent-home, 
where  I  was  always  so  peaceful  and  so  happy  !  " 

"Foolish  child!"  said  the  colonel,  smiling  in  spite  of 
himself  at  the  «^torm  of  childish  distress,  "is  it  then  so 
dreadful  a  thing  to  be  married  ? " 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


\(i1 


**It  is  dreadful  to  leave  you,  papa,  and  grandmamma, 

and  all  that  I  love  !  " 

"You  forget,  Vivia,  that  it  is  grandmamma  who  is 
sending  you  away !  And  then  you  will  have  Leicester 
Cliffe  to  love — your  bridegroom,  you  know — handsome 
and  dashing — and  you  will  soon  forget  us  old  folks  al- 
together !  "  laughing  still,  but  with  a  little  tremor  of  the 
voice. 

"Papa,  when  I  forget  you,  I  will  be  dead." 

One  little  hand  lay  in  his,  and  he  lifted  it  to  his  lips, 
while  the  stars  shook  as  if  seen  through  water. 

"  When  is  my  Vivia  to  answer  grandmamma?" 

"To-night." 

"  And  what  does  she  intend  to  say  ? '' 

"  Papa,  you  know  I  must  say  *  Yes  !  '  " 

His  hand  closed  over  hers,  and  his  mouth  grew  stern 
and  resolute,  as  Lady  Agnes  had  seen  it  once,  eighteen 
years  before. 

"Never,  my  girl,  unless  you  wish  it !  The  ambitious 
dreams  of  all  the  Cliffes  and  Shirleys  that  ever  existed, 
from  the  first  of  them  who  spoke  English  at  the  Tower  of 
Babel,  shall  not  weigh  one  feather  in  the  scale  against 
my  daughter  s  inclinations  !  Let  your  heart  answer,  Vivia, 
*Yes'  or  'No,' as  it  chooses;  and  no  one  living  shall 
gainsay  it !  " 

Vivia  looked  half  frightened  at  the  outbreak,  and  clung 
closer  to  his  protecting  arm. 

"  Dear,  dear  papa  !  how  good  you  are  to  me  !  Oh,  the 
most  miserable  thing  about  the  whole  affair  is,  that  I  shall 
have  to  leave  you  !  " 

He  laughed  his  own  gay,  careless  laugh. 

' '  Oh,  if  that  be  all,  my  darling,  we  must  get  over  the 
objection.  You  don't  mean  to  live  and  die  an  old  maid 
for  papa's  sake  surely  !  I  have  a  plan  of  my  own,  when 
this  wedding  comes  off,  that  I  shall  tell  you  about  pres- 
ently ;  meantime  grandmamma  is  waiting  for  you  to  say 
♦Yes.'     It  will  be  '  Yes,'  will  it  not  ?  " 

"  Wir  you  consent,  papa  .?  " 

"My  consent  depends  on  yours.      Y'ou  are  sure  you 
have  no  personal  objections  to  this  young  man  ?" 
'  "None  at  all,  papa.     How  could  I  ?  " 

"True;  he  is  good-looking  and  spirited — everything 
the  veriest  heroine  of  romance   could  desire :   and  the 


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WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


whole  affair  is  very  much  like  a  romance  itself,  I  must 
say.  And  you  don't — but  I  hardly  need  ask  that  question 
— you  don't  care  for  any  one  else  ? " 

"  Papa,  you  know  I  don't." 

"Very  good.  I  see  no  reason,  then,  why  you  should 
not  marry  him  to-morrow.  If  the  hero  of  this  sentimen- 
tal plan  of  grandmamma's  had  been  any  other  man  than 
Leicester  Cliffe,  I  should  not  have  listened  to  it  for  a  mo- 
ment ;  but  as  it  is,  I  fancy  it's  all  n[;ht ;  and  we  must 
concludf  that  it's  one  of  the  'oar  i.-'^'S  made  ii.  heaven. 
I  own  I  have  a  weakn^^^s  foi  3>eo|.>le  tailing  in  love  in  the 
good  old  orthodox  way,  as  T  ui'l  my  .elf  long  ago.  Look 
here,  Vivia." 

Vivia  had  often  noticed  a  slender  gc  la  chain  that  her 
father  wore  round  his  neck,  and  wondered  what  t.  lisman 
was  attached.  Now  he  withdrew  it,  displaying  a  locket, 
which  he  opened  and  handed  to  her.  Vivia  lookv^d  at  it 
with  awe.  The  beautiful  uplifted  eyes  ;  the  dark  hair, 
half  waves,  half  curls,  falling  back  from  the  oval  face  ; 
the  superb  lips  smiling  upon  the  gazer — she  knew  it  well. 
Reverentially  she  lifted  it  to  her  lips. 

"  It  is  my  mamma — my  dear  dead  mamma  !  " 

"It  is!  and  next  to  you,  my  Vivia,  I  have  prized  it 
through  all  these  years  as  the  most  precious  thing  I  pos- 
sess. I  give  it  to  you,  now,  and  you  must  wear  it  all 
your  life." 

' '  I  shall  wear  it  over  my  heart  till  I  die  !     But,  papa 

She  had  been  looking  at  it  with  strange  intentness,  and 
new  she  glanced  up  at  him  with  a  puzzled  face. 

"  Well,  Vivia  ?  " 

"Papa,  it  is  the  odd' st  thing;  but,  do  you  know,  I 
think  it  resembles  somebody  I  have  seen." 

"Who?" 

"You  will  laugh,  perhaps,  but  it  is  Barbara  Black.  It 
is  a  long  time  since  I  have  seen  her  ;  but  I  have  a  good 
memory  for  faces,  and  I  do  think  she  looks  like  this." 

The  colonel  leaned  forward  and  looked  at  it  thought- 
fully. 

"I  have  noticed  it  before.  There  is  something  in  the 
turn  of  the  head  and  in  the  smile  that  is  like  Barbara  ; 
but  we  see  these  chance  resemblances  every  day.  Are 
you  not  afraid  Lady  Agnes  will  be  tired  waiting  ? " 


WE  DO  ED  FOR  PIQUE. 


169 


all 


rht- 


**  I  will  go  to  her  fii  a  moment,  oapa,"  she  said,  kissing 
the  likenes  again,  and  placing  it  roi:nd  her  neck.      "But 

first  tell  me  about  the  phni  you  spoke  of,  after  I  am " 

She  •   opped,  l)lushing. 

"  '  ■  aified,  Vivia,     he  said,  laughing. 

""^'es,  papa.     You  spoke  of  a  p'riu,  you  know?" 

*  •  ;  did,    md  here  it  is." 

If 0  pointed,  as  he  spoke,  to  the  paper,  which  was  filled 
with  accounts  <  ^  W..  war  in  Egypt,  A  great  victory  had 
just  been  gained  by  the  British,  and  the  columns  were 
dark  with  deeds  of  blood  and  heroism.  Vivia  clasped  her 
hands,  and  turned  pale,  with  a  presentiment  of  what  was 
coming. 

"It  is  hardly  the  thing,"  said  the  colonel,  "that  a'. 
old  soldier,  like  myself,  should  loiter  here  in  ingloriou'i 
idleness,  while  such  deeds  as  these  are  making  m;u 
famous  every  day.  Now  that  Vivia  is  to  leave,  the  <:  Id. 
house  at  home  will  be  rather  dreary  for  comfort,  aii.i  •■ 
shall  be  of'  for  Africa  within  a  w^ek  after  you  bee-  me 
Mrs.  Cliffe.  ' 

She  did  not  speak.  She  clasped  her  hands  on  ais 
shoulder,  and  dropped  her  face  thereon. 

"The  plan  is — Lady  Agnes  has  the  whole  thing  ar- 
ranged— that  you  avid  she  and  Leicester  (for  she  intends 
accompanying  you)  are  to  pass  the  summer  in  France 
and  Switzerland,  the  winter  in  Italy,  enjoy  the  carnival 
in  Venice,  Holy  V/eek  in  Rome,  and  come  back  to  Clif- 
toniea  in  the  following  spring,  so  that  you  will  be  a  whole 
year  absent.  Meanwhile  I  shall  be  storming  redoubts, 
and  leading  forlorn  hopes,  and  writing  letters  from  the 
seat  of  war  to  my  pretty  daughter,  who  will  be " 

"  Praying  for  you,  papa  !  " 

He  had  felt  his  shoulder  growing  wet  with  tears,  and 
before  he  could  speak,  she  had  risen  and  glided  lightly 
from  the  room. 

Upstairs  Lady  Agnes  was  pacing  up  and  down,  in  a 
little  fever  of  impatience.  Vivia  paused  for  a  moment, 
as  she  passed  en  her  way  to  her  owr  room. 

"I  will  do  everything  you  wish,  grandmamma,"  she 
fiaid.      "Good-night." 

Conquenng  Lady  Agnes  !  What  a  radiant  smile  she 
cast  after  the  graceful  form  disappearing  in  its  own  cham- 
ber.    But  once  there,  the  bride-elect  fell  down  on   her 


I 


\\ 


\\i 


•\ 


.  'h 


170 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


knees  by  the  window,  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands, 
feeling  that  the  shining  stream  along  which  she  had 
floated  all  her  life  was  becoming  turgid  and  rough,  and 
that  she  was  drifting,  without  rudder  or  compass,  into  an 
unknown  sea,  void  of  sunshine  or  shore.  So  long  she 
knelt  there,  that  the  stars  waxed  pale  and  went  dimly  out, 
one  by  one,  before  the  gray  eyes  of  the  coming  morning, 
and  one — the  morning  star — looked  brightly  down  on 
her  alone. 

Well  might  Vivia  keep  vigil.     In  one  hour  her  whole 
childhood  had  passed  from  her  like  a  dream. 


r|;'r 

h'':f     '^! 

'  '^'M 

' 

IliM^lll' 


i    ! 


liijt 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


BACK    AGAIN. 


Once  more  the  cathedral  bells  were  cracking  their  brazen 
throats  ringing  out  peals  of  joy  ;  once  more  there  were 
triumphal  arches  all  along  High  street  to  the  very  gates 
of  Castle  Cliffe,  with  "Welcome,  Roseof  Sussex  !  "  '"  Long 
life  and  happiness  to  the  heiress  of  Castle  Cliffe !  '  and  a 
score  of  other  flaming  mottoes  ;  once  more  the  charity 
children  turned  out  to  strew  the  road  with  flowers  ;  once 
more  the  town  was  assembled  in  gala  attire  ;  once  more 
there  were  to  be  public  feasting  and  rejoicing,  and  beer 
and  beef  for  every  "  chawbacon  "  in  Sussex,  ad  libitum. 
That  day  month  there  had  been  shouting  for  the  May 
Queen — now  there  was  shouting  for  a  far  greater  person- 
age, no  less  than  the  heiress  of  Castle  Cliffe. 

In  the  sunshine  of  a  glorious  June  afternoon,  under  the 
arches  of  evergreen  and  over  the  flower-strewn  road, 
came  the  triumphal  chariot  of  the  heiress,  otherwise  a 
grand  barouche,  drawn  by  four  handsome  grays  in  silver- 
plated  harness,  with  outriders.  In  this  barouche  sat  the 
colonel  and  Miss  Shirley,  Lady  Agnes  and  Leicester  Cliffe. 
The  young  lady  was  kept  busy  bowing  ;  for,  as  the  crowd 
saw  the  bright,  smiling  face,  they  hurrahed  again  and 
again,  with  much  the  same  enthusiasm  as  that  which 
made  the  Scotch  people  shout,  when  Mary  Stuart  rode 


I 


3on- 


;e  a 
ver- 

the 
liffe. 

)wd 

and 
hich 

rode 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


171 


among  them,  "  God  bless  that  sweet  face  !  "  In  the  nex*- 
carriajTfc  came  Sir  Roland  and  Lord  Lisle,  Tom  and  Mar- 
garet Shirley,  and  the  two  that  followed  were  filled  with 
a  crowd  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  from  the  city,  whor(. 
Lady  Agnes  had  brought  down,  though  they  knew  it  not, 
to  be  present  at  her  granddaughter's  wedding. 

The  great  gates  swung  majestically  back  under  the 
carved  arch,  emblazoned  with  the  escutcheon  of  the 
Cli.^fes,  to  let  the  car  of  triumph  in  ;  and  the  lodgekeeper 
stood  in  the  door  of  the  Italian  cottage  to  bow  to  the  pass- 
ing princess.  The  flag  on  the  domed  roof  flung  uut  its 
folds  proudly  to  the  breeze,  and  a  long  line  of  servants, 
many  old  and  gray  in  the  service  of  the  family,  stood 
drawn  up  in  the  hall  to  bid  them  welcome. 

There,  too,  stood  Mr.  Sweet,  ever  sm'ing  and  debon- 
naire,  the  sunshine  seeming  to  glint  and  scintillate  in  his 
yellow  hair  and  whiskers,  in  his  jingling  jewelry  and 
smiling  mouth,  until  he  made  one  wink  io  look  at  him. 

All  sorts  of  miracles  had  been  working  in  the  house  for 
the  last  fortnight.  A  whole  regiment  of  upholsterers  had 
been  sent  down  from  London  to  set  every  room  topsy- 
turvy and  the  servants  distracted,  and  to  make  them  per- 
fectly resplendent  with  damask  and  velvet.  And  now 
the  heiress  of  all  this  wealth  and  splendor,  fnir  and  youth- 
ful, her  eyes  filling  with  tears,  was  entering,  leaning  on 
the  arm  of  her  hero  of  a  father,  stately  and  handsome  ; 
and  some  of  the  servants  were  wiping  their  eyes,  too, 
and  whispering  how  like  she  was  to  all  the  Cliffes  gener- 
ally, but  particularly  to  the  abbess,  whose  portrait  hung 
in  the  hall  above. 

Marshaled  by  the  housekeeper,  eveybody  hurried  off  to 
their  rooms  to  dress  for  dinner.  Vivia  went  to  hers  (the 
Rose  Room),  where  she  had  slept  the  first  night  she  en- 
tered Castle  Cliffe.  In  all  the  changes  and  preparations 
it  had  not  been  altered,  by  her  own  especial  request ;  and 
she  danced  round  it  like  the  happy  child  she  was,  glad  to 
be  home  again. 

There  stood  the  dainty  bed  in  the  recess,  guarded  by 
the  watchful  angel  ;  there  was  the  picture  over  the  mantel 
— the  majestic  figure,  with  the  halo  round  the  head,  bless- 
ing little  children  ;  and  there — yes,  there  was  one  change 
— there  was  another  picture,  a  fair-haired  boy,  with  a 
face  beautiful  as  an  angel ;  the  picture  that  had  once  hung 


i 


Hi 


172 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


K  . 


in  the  villa  at  Cliffewood,  and  sent  to  her  by  Sir  Roland 
within  the  last  fortnight,  as  having  decidedly  the  best 
riglU  to  it. 

Alone  as  she  was,  her  cheeks  grew  hot  and  crimson  at 
the  sight,  and  then  she  laughed  to  herself  and  kissed  her 
tinger-tips  to  it,  and  resigned  herself  into  the  hands  of 
Jcaiinette  to  make  her  pretty  for  dinner.  And  pretty  she 
did  look  when  it  was  all  over  ;  for  she  was  too  impatient 
to  go  through  the  house  to  see  the  changes  to  waste  time 
over  her  toilet. 

Mr.  Sweet,  standmg  in  the  hall,  talking  to  the  house- 
keeper, looked  at  her,  quite  lost  in  admiration,  as  she 
came  out  in  a  lloating  amplitude  of  bright  blue  silk,  low- 
necked  and  short-sleeved  according  to  her  cool  custom  ; 
her  golden  hair,  freshly  curled,  falling  around  her  in  an 
amber  cloud  ;  her  blue  eyes  shining,  her  rounded  cheeks 
flushed.  Low  he  bent  before  her,  with  a  gleam  \a  his 
eyes  that  was  half  admiration,  half  derision. 

Now,  Vivia  did  not  like  Mr.  Sweet,  and  Mr.  Sweet  was 
not  fond  of  Vivia.  The  young  lady  had  an  unwinking 
way  of  looking  out  of  her  great  blue  eyes  and  discerning 
tinsel  from  gold,  despite  its  pitiful  glistening,  with  much 
of  her  grandmother's  eagle  glance,  and  Mr.  Sweet  always 
shrank  a  little  under  those  fearless,  guiltless  eyes. 

"  He  is  too  sweet  to  be  wholesome,  Tom,"  she  had  said 
once  to  her  cousin.  "No  man  that  always  smiles  and 
never  frowns  is  anything  but  a  hypocrite." 

But  to-day  she  was  at  peace  with  the  world  and  all 
therein,  and  she  bent  her  pretty  head  and  shimmering 
curls  till  they  flashed  back  the  sunlight,  and  then  danced 
down  the  hall  like  an  incarnate  sunbeam  herself. 

It  was  well  Vivia  knew  the  old  house  by  heart,  or  she 
certainly  would  have  been  lost  in  the  labyrinth  of  halls, 
and  corridors,  and  passages  changed  as  they  were  now. 
A  certain  suite  of  oak  rooms  in  the  Agnes  Tower,  with 
windows  facing  the  east — she  liked  a  sunny  eastern  pros- 
pect— had  been,  by  the  orders  of  Lady  Agnes,  fitted  up 
ostensibly  for  Miss  Shirley  ;  in  reality,  for  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Cliffe.  There  was  a  boudoir  whose  very  carpet  was  a 
miracle  in  itself — violets  and  forget-me-nots  so  natural 
that  you  scarcely  dared  step  on  them,  on  a  groundwork 
of  purest  white,  like  flowers  blooming  in  a  snow-bank. 
There  were  window  curtain*  '^  blue  satin,  with  silvef 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


173 


all 


'^ork 
ank. 
ilvel 


embroidery,  under  white  lace  ;  walls  paneled  in  azure 
satin,  and  hung  with  exquisite  pictures,  each  of  which  had 
cost,  in  Italy  and  (iermany,  a  small  fortune  in  itself. 
There  was  a  wonderful  cabinet  of  ebony  and  gold,  vases 
half  as  tall  as  herself,  a  ceiling  where  silver  stars  shone 
on  a  blue  ground,  and  chairs  of  some  white  wood  that 
looked  like  ivory  cushioned  in  blue  satin.  There  was  a 
rosewood  piano  in  one  corner,  with  the  music  she  liked 
on  the  rack  beside  it.  There  were  carved  swinging- 
shelves  of  the  same  white  wood,  witii  all  her  favorite 
authors,  gayly  bound,  thereon,  from  William  Shakespeare 
to  Charles  Dickens.  There  were  hot-house  flowers  on 
the  table,  and  jweet-voiced  canaries,  singing  in  silver- 
plated  cages  ;  and  a  portrait  of  herself,  resplendent  in  the 
dress  she  had  worn  at  court,  smiling  serenely  down  on 
all.     And — 

"Dear,  dear  grandmother!*'  she  murmured,      "How 
good,  how  kind,  how  generous  she  is  !  " 

The  next  suite  was  an  oratory,  fitted  up  for  private  de- 
votions. Vivia  looked  round  her  in  delight,  and  having 
knelt  for  a  moment  to  murmur  a  prayer,  passed  on  to  the 
next — the  dressing-room.  It  was  a  bath-room  as  well  as 
a  dressing-room  ;  the  walls  were  decorated  with  mirrors, 
reaching  from  floor  to  ceiling,  with  fragrant  cedar  closets 
on  either  hand.  On  one  of  the  tables  lay  a  dressing-case 
of  mother-of-pearl,  and  the  carpet  and  hangings  were  of 
dark  crimson.  The  next  was  the  bed-chamber,  a  superb 
room,  with  four  large  windows  draped  in  green  velvet, 
cut  in  antique  points,  and  lined  with  white  satin,  over- 
looking an  extensive  prospect  of  terraces,  and  shrubbery, 
and  plantations,  and  avenues.  Green  and  white  were 
the  pervading  tints  throughout  the  room  ;  the  bed-hang- 
ings were  of  those  shades  ;  the  easy-chairs  and  lounges 
were  upholstered  in  green  velvet,  and  the  carpet  looked 
like  green  moss  with  wreaths  of  white  roses  laid  on  it. 
And  then  came  another  dressing-room,  whose  shades 
were  amber  andjei  which  made  Vivia  open  her  eyes  ; 
and  beyond  it  there  was  a  little  study  with  rosewood 
shelves  round  three  si'les  of  the  room,  well  filled  with 
books,  and  there  was  a  gentleman's  Turkish  dressing- 
gown  of  bright  scarlet  and  yellow  lying  over  the  back  of 
an  arm-chair;  and  on  the  table  was  a  long  Turkish  pipe, 
with  an  amber  mouth-piece,  and  beside  it  a  crimson  fez. 


\\\ 


'liiji 


;■.,  M' 


i 


«74 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


The  other  side  of  the  room  seemed  to  be  a  smar  aiinory, 
for  there  were  swords  and  daggers  of  Damascus  steel, 
whose  keen  blue  glitter  made  her  flesh  creep  ;  and  pistols 
and  revolvers,  at  sight  of  which  she  recoiled  precipitately 
to  the  other  end  of  the  room. 

"Grandmamma  is  determined  that  I  shall  have  a  variety 
of  dressing-rooms,"  thought  Vivia,  in  horrified  surprise; 
"but  what  all  those  horrid  things  are  for,  I  cannot  imagine. 
Does  she  expect  me  to  wear  that  red  and  yellow  dressing- 
gown  and  flaming  cap,  and  smoke  that  dreadful,  long- 
stemmed  chibouque,  I  wonder?     I  shall  go  and  see." 

Each  of  those  rooms  had  two  doors,  one  opening  on 
the  outer  hall,  the  other  in  a  straight  line  communicating 
with  each  other.  Vivia  hurried  on  to  the  beautiful  bou- 
doir, and  with  the  free,  light,  elastic  step  peculiar  to  her, 
traversed  the  hall  and  corridor,  the  last  of  which  was  her 
own.  The  door  of  the  lady's  dressing-room  was  ajar,  and 
the  girl  looked  in. 

"Grandmamma,  I  have  been  through  the  rooms,  and 
they  are  charming.  I  never  saw  anything  prettier  in  my 
life ! " 

Lady  Agnes  was  sitting  listlessly,  with  her  eyes  closed 
and  her  hands  folded,  before  a  great  Psyche  mirror,  under 
the  hands  of  her  maid.  At  the  sound  of  the  voice,  she 
opened  her  eyes  and  looked  round  in  surprise. 

"My  dear  child,  is  this  really  you  ?  How  is  it  possible 
you  are  dressed  already  ? " 

Miss  Shirley  pulled  out  a  watch  about  the  size  of  a  penny- 
piece,  set  with  a  blazing  circlet  of  diamonds,  and  consulted 
it  with  precision. 

"I  was  dressed  just  twenty  minutes  ago,  grandmam- 
ma. 

"What  an  absurd  toilet  you  must  have  made,  then! 
Come  in  and  let  me  look  at  you." 

Vivia  entered,  and  made  a  respectful  little  housemaid's 
courtesy. 

"Oh,  my  lady,  don't  scold,  if  you  please!  I  was  dying 
to  see  the  rooms  ;  and  how  could  I  think  of  my  toilet  the 
very  first  hour  I  got  home  1  " 

"Well,  you  arc  tolerable,'"  said  Lady  Agnes,  leaning 
over  w'ith  a  critical  eye,  "  but  too  plain,  child.  Simplicity 
is  very  nice  in  young  girls,  but  some  ornament — a  flower, 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


«7S 


•  few  pearls,  everything  in  keeping,  remember."    (She 

herself  was  blazing  iii  jewels,)  "  And  you  have  rather  too 
much  of  a  milkmaid  flush  on  your  cheeks  ;  but  still  you 
are  very  well.     Where  did  you  say  you  had  been  ? " 

"To  see  the  oak  rooms  in  the  Agnes  Tower.  They  are 
lovely,  all  of  them.  But,  grandmamma,  I  don't  under- 
stand why  I'm  to  use  two  dressing-rooms,  and  what  all 
those  shocking  swords  and  pistols  are  for." 

**  Dear  child,"  said  Lady  Agnes,  in  German,  that  Made- 
moiselle Hortense,  the  maid,  might  not  understand, 
"  they  are  not  thine  alone,  but  Mr.  and  Mrs.  ClifFe's.  The 
amber  dressing-room  and  study  are  your  husband's." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Vivia,  laughing  and  blushing. 

"After  your  bridal  tour,  you  know,  they  will  be  occu- 
pied^^ — not  until  then  ;  and  afterward  when  you  visit  the 
Castle.  And  now,  Victoria,  there's  something  else  I  want 
to  speak  to  you  about — the  announcement  of  your  engage- 
ment. As  I  acceded  to  your  silly  entreaties  in  town  and 
did  not  announce  it  there,  I  think  it  is  only  proper  that  our 
guests  should  be  informed  immediately.  As  the  marriage 
is  to  take  place  itself  within  a  fortnight,  the  notice  even 
now  will  be  absurdly  short." 

"Oh,  grandmamma,  no  !  Don't  publish  it  yet,  not  on 
any  account !  " 

"Victoria,  I'm  surprised  at  you!  I  have  no  patience 
with  you  !  Now'why,  for  Heaven's  sake,  might  not  the 
whole  world  know  it  ?  " 

"Grandmamma,  you  know  very  well.  I  told  you  in 
town  why.  I  should  feel  so  ashamed  and  so  silly  ;  and 
I  am  sure  I  should  not  be  able  to  speak  a  word  to  mon- 
sieur, my  cousin,  again  until  after  the  ceremony.  And 
then,  to  think  that  every  one  in  Cliftonlea,  and  in  Lower 
Clilfe,  and  Lisleham,  and  all  round  the  country,  will  talk 
about  it,  and  my  name  will  be  bandied  on  every  lip,  high 
and  low  ;  and  how  rhe  trousseau  and  settlements  will  be 
discussed ;  and  how  the  sentimental  people  will  wonder 
if  it  was  a  love-match  or  a  manage  de  convenance  ;  and 
how  they  will  conjecture,  over  there  in  the  town,  what  sort 
of  an  appetite  I  had  the  day  before,  and  how  many  tears 
I  will  shed  on  being  led  to  the  altar.  And  then  those  peo- 
ple here — how,  for  the  next  two  or  three  weeks,  it  will  be 
the  sole  subject  of  discussior  ;  how  they  will  shower  con- 
scious smiles  and  glances  at  me  whenever  I  approach,  and 


fl 


176 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


make  our  united  names  their  theme  over  the  billiard  and 
card-tables,  and  tell  each  other  what  an  excellent  match 
it  is  ;  and  move  away  and  leave  us  alone  if  we  chance  by 
accident  to  come  together  among  the  rest ;  and  I  will  be 
congratulated,  and  kissed,  and  talked  at.  Oh,  dreadful ! 
I  should  never  survive  it  !  " 

All  this  had  been  poured  forth  with  such  excited  vehe- 
mence, that  Lady  Agnes  opened  her  light  blue  eyes  in  sur- 
prise, and  Mademoiselle  Hortense,  without  understanding 
a  word,  stared  and  pricked  up  her  ears.  As  she  stopped, 
with  very  red  cheeks  and  very  bright  eyes.  Lady  Agnes 
broke  out  with  energy  : 

"Victoria,  you  are  nothing  but  a  little  fool  !  " 

"Yes,  grandmamma  ;  but  p-p-please  don't  tell." 

"Now,  grant  me  patience.  Was  there  ever  anything 
heard  like  this  ?  Pray  tell  me.  Miss  Shirley,  if  you  are 
ashamed  of  your  coming  wedding.''  " 

"  Oh,  grandmamma  !  " 

"Is  it  ever  to  be  announced  at  all,  or  are  our  f-i_2fcts 
to  know  nothing  of  it  until  the  wedding-morning — tell 
m.e  that  ?  " 

"Oh,  not  so  bad  as  that.     Won't  next  week  do  ?  " 

"This  week  will  do  better.  Are  you  not  aware  that 
Leicester  leaves  to-morrow  for  London,  to  arrange  about 
the  settlements,  and  will  not  return  til}  within  three  or  four 
days  of  ihe  day  ?  " 

"  Yes,  grandmamma  ;  and  I  don't  want  you  to  say 
anything  about  it  until  he  comes  back." 

"  Victoria,  tell  me — do  you  care  at  all  for  your  future 
husband.?  " 

Victoria  wilted  suddenly  down. 

"  I — I  think  so,  grandmamma." 

"1 — I  think  so,  grandmamma!"  said  her  ladyship, 
mimicking  her  tone.  "Oh,  was  there  ever  such  another 
simpleton  on  the  face  of  the  earth  !  Victoria,  I  am 
ashamed  of  you  !     Wliere  are  you  going  now  ?  " 

"To  the  Queen's  Room.  Don't  be  angry,  grandmamma. 
I  shall  do  everything  you  tell  me  in  all  other  ways  and 
all  other  matters  ;  but,  please,  like  a  dear,  good  grand- 
mamma, let  me  have  my  way  in  this." 

It  was  not  in  human  nature  to  resist  that  sweet,  coaxing 
tone,  nor  that  smile,  half-gay  half-deprecating,  nor  yet 
the  kiss  with  which  the  grand  lady's  lips  were  bribed  and 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


177 


am 


? 


I 


sealed.     Lady  Agnes  pushed  her  away,  half-smiling,  half- 
petulant. 

"You're  all  the  same  as  a  great  ba*  ','ictoria,  and 
altogether  spoiled  by  that  other  great  bauy — your  papa. 
Go  away." 

Laughing,  Victoria  went,  and  singing  to  herself  a 
merry  chansonette,  danced  along  the  old  halls  to  the 
Queen's  Room  in  the  Queen's  Tower.  In  this  particular 
room,  said  the  traditions  of  the  house,  Queen  Elizabeth 
had  slept  ;  and,  from  that  memorable  time  everything 
had  remained  precisely  as  the  great  queen  had  left  it. 

The  Queen's  Room  had  been  the  awe  and  admiration 
of  Vivia's  childhood,  and  it  seemed  filled  with  g-hostly 
rustling  now  as  she  entered,  as  if  good  Queen  Bess's  one 
silk  dress  still  rattled  stiffly  against  the  molded  wainscot- 
ing. It  was  a  dismally  old  apartment,  very  long  and 
very  low-ceilinged,  with  great  oaken  beams  crossing  it 
transversely,  and  quartered  in  the  center  in  the  same 
wood,  with  the  arms  of  Cliffe,  surmounted  by  the  bloody 
hand.  A  huge  bed,  in  which  the  Seven  Sleepers  might 
have  reposed,  with  lots  of  room  to  kick  about  in,  stood  in 
the  center  of  the  dusty  oak  floor,  and  the  daylight  came 
dimly  through  tv/o  narrow,  high  windows,  with  minute 
diamond  panes  set  in  leade  1  casements,  all  overrun  with 
ivy.  There  was  a  black  gulf  of  a  fireplace  wherein  Yule 
logs  had  blazed  a  Christmas  tune  ;  and  there  was  a  huge 
granite  mantelpiece,  with  a  little  ledge  ever  so  far  up. 
There  must  have  been  giants  in  the  days  it  was  used, 
and  Vivia  kissed  the  cold  gray  stone  and  read  the  pious 
legend  carved  on  it  in  quaint  letters:  ''Mater  Dei, 
memento  me!"  All  sorts  of  grotesque  heads  were  carved 
on  the  oak  panels — sylphs  and  satyrs,  gods  and  god- 
desses, heavenly  and  infernal  ;  and  opposite  each  other, 
one  of  the  martyred  abbesses  and  Queen  Elizabeth.  This 
last  was  a  sliding  panel  opening  with  a  secret  spring, 
and  leading  by  a  subterraneous  passage  out  into  the  park 
— a  secret  passage  by  which  many  a  crime  had  been  con- 
cealed in  days  gone  by,  and  which  Vivia  knew  well,  and 
had  often  passed  through  in  her  childhood. 

She  had  been  walking  round  the  room  examining  the 

carvings,  and  looking  at  her  own  pretty  self  in  a  dusty 

old   mirror,   before  which   the   royal   tigress  of  England 

had  once  stood,  combing  out  her  red  mane,  when  she 

13 


ifi.^; 


Illi 


i.-.F 


178 


WEDDED  FOR  PjQUE, 


was  interrupted  in  a  startling  and  mysterious  way 
enough. 

"Victoria  !  " 

Vivia  started  and  looked  round.  The  voice,  soft  and 
low,  was  close  beside  her — came  actually  from  the  carved 
lips  of  the  nun  in  the  panel. 

"  Victoria  !  " 

Again  from  the  lips  of  wood  came  the  name,  clear  and 
sweet.  She  started  back  and  gazed  with  blanched  cheeks 
and  dilating  eyes  on  the  beautiful  dust-stained  face.  One 
more  came  the  voice,  vibrating  clear  and  distinct  through- 
out the  room  : 

"  Victoria  Shirley,  the  hour  of  your  downfall  is  at  hand. 
For  six  years  you  have  walked  your  way,  with  a  ring  and 
a  clatter,  over  the  heads  of  those  whose  handmaid  you 
were  born  to  be  ;  but  the  hour  comes  when  might  shall 
succumb  to  right,  and  you  shall  be  thrust  out  into  the 
slime  from  which  you  have  arisen.  Heiress  of  Castle 
Cliffe,  look  to  yourself,  and  remember  that  the  last  shall 
be  first,  and  the  first  shall  be  last." 

The  faint,  low  voice  took  a  stern  and  menacing  tone 
at  the  close,  and  then  died  away  in  impressive  silence. 
Vivia  had  been  standing  breathless,  and  spell-bound,  and 
terror-struck,  with  her  eyes  on  the  carved  nun's  face  over 
the  door. 

When  it  ceased,  the  spell  was  broken,  and  Vivia  turned 
in  horror  to  fly.  Not  for  worlds  would  she  have  gone 
near  it  to  pass  through  the  door ;  so  she  touched  the 
spring  in  the  secret  panel,  and  passed  out  into  the  open- 
ing beyond. 

As  it  closed,  shutting  out  the  last  ray  of  light,  and 
leaving  her  in  utter  darkness,  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  a 
dark  figure  disappearing  before  her  in  the  gloom,  and  she 
flew  down  along  the  spiral  staircase — how,  she  scarcely 
ever  afterward  knew. 

At  the  foot  was  a  long  arched  stone  passage,  nearly  an 
eighth  of  a  mile  in  extent,  ending  in  a  wilderness  of  ivy 
and  juniper,  close  beside  one  of  the  laurel  walks.  Through 
it  she  f!.'^  V,  pale  and  breathless,  pausing  not  until  she 
found  iiei'Se!f  \>\\\.  in  sunshine,  with  the  birds  singing  in 
the  branches  overhc  d,  and  the  pure  breezes  sweeping  up, 
cool  and  ^:weei,  from  the  sea. 

Soire^'liir.s  else  »v:is  there  to  f. assure  her  also — a  figure 


\ 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


179 


% 


11 


walking  up  and  down  the  laurel  walk,  and  smoking  furi- 
ously. It  turned  the  instant  after  she  emerged  from  the 
tangled  wilderness  of  ivy,  and  seeing  her,  took  the  cigar 
between  his  finger  the  thumb,  and  stared  with  all  his 
might. 

Vivia's  courage  and  presence  ot  mind  came  back  all  at 
once. 

"  Does  monsieur  think  I  ha\e  dropped  from  the  skies  !  " 
she  asked,  coquettishly,  for,  being  more  than  half  French, 
Mademoiselle  Genevieve  took  to  coquetry  as  naturally 
as  a  wasp  takes  to  stinging. 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  Leicester  Cliffe,  flinging  away 
his  cigar,  and  coming  up.  "I  might  very  easily  be  par- 
doned for  mistaking  you  for  an  angel,  but,  in  the  present 
ir  stance,  I  merely  think  you  are  a  witch  !  Two  seconds 
••go  I  was  all  alone  ;  no  one  was  visible  in  any  direction 
but  myself.  At  the  end  of  these  two  seconds  I  turn 
round,  and  lo  !  there  stands  before  me  a  shining  vision 
in  gold  and  azure,  like  the  queen  of  the  fairies  in  a 
moonlit  ring.     Will  you  vanish  if  I  come  any  nearer?  " 

"You  may  come  and  see  !  " 

He  needed  no  second  bidding.  And  as  he  stood  before 
her,  looking  at  her  in  astonishment,  he  saw  how  pale  she 
was,  and  the  excited  gleam  in  her  serene  blue  eyes, 

"What  has  happened  }  Has  anything  frightened  you? 
Why  are  you  looking  so  pale  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  shivered,  drew  closer  to  him  involuntarily,  and 
glanced  behind  her  with  a  startled  face. 

"Vivia,  what  is  it?     Something  has  gone  wrong  !  '" 

"Yes  ;  come  away  from  here,  and  I  will  tell  you,' 

He  drew  her  hand  within  his  arm,  and  turned  do'  n 
the  laurel  walk.  It  en/i/?/i  in  a  long  avenue  leading  ■  <«4 
the  old  ruin  ;  and  as  they  (rhtz-fr-^    he  asked  again  : 

"Well,  Vivia,  what  has  '^one  //fongr,  and  how  c  xfM 
you  to  appear  there  so  suddenly  c-  /-'t^Tiously  ?  " 

"There  is  nothing  mysterious  aLOh^r  juf  pfettinr  'ere. 
You  know  the  the  subterraneous  passage  VeMtWw^r  <  the 

Queen's  Tower  to  the  park?  I  merely  4a//^  -  ugh 
that. " 

"  A  pleasant  notion  !  to  come  through  that  <iS0l  an^ 
damp  old  vault,  when  you  could  have  stepped  out  mrough 
the  front  door  with  double  the  ease  and  convenience  I 
Pid  you  see  the  ghost  of  Queen  Elizabeth  on  the  way  ?  " 


i8o 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


\. 


"  No,  monsieur  ;  but  if  you  laugfh  at  me,  I  shall  not  eay 
another  word.     The  mysterious  part  is  to  come." 

"Oh,  there  is  a  mystery,  then — that's  refreshing  !  Let 
me  hear  it." 

"You  are  laughing  at  me  !  " 

"By  no  means  !  Pray  don't  keep  me  in  this  torturing 
suspense." 

"Monsieur,  I  had  been  through  the  house,  looking  at 
the  improvements,  and  I  came  to  the  Queen's  Room,  to 
see  if  they  had  been  sacrilegious  enough  to  alter  that.  In 
one  of  the  panels  there  is  carved  the  head  of  a  nun,  the 
abbess  who " 

"Oh,  I  know  perfectly!  Lady  Edith  Cliffe,  who  was 
murdered  there  in  the  old  monastery.     What  else" 

"Monsieur,  there  was  a  voice — it  seemed  to  come  from 
that  head — and  it  said  things  it  chills  my  blood  to  think  of, 
I  think  there  was  no  one  else  in  the  whole  tower  but 
myself;  I  am  sure  there  w^j  no  one  else  in  the  room; 
and  yet,  there  was  that  v^oice,  which  seemed  to  come  from 
the  carved  head  !  Don't  laugh  at  me,  monsieur  ;  I  am 
telling  the  whole  truth." 

Monsieur  was  not  di^-'^sedto  laugh — not  at  all.  He 
was  thinking  of  the  Nun's  Grave,  and  of  the  warning 
voice  so  mysterious  and  so  solemn.  This  voice  was  pos- 
sibly the  same.     Vivia  looked  up  with  her  earnest  eyes. 

"What  does  monsieur  think  of  this  ?  " 

"  That  there  is  not  the  least  reason  in  the  world  to  be 
afraid.     Mademoiselle,  I,  too,  have  heard  that  voice  !  " 

"You!" 

"Even  so!" 

"Where?" 

"At  the  Nun's  Grave." 

"Oh,  monsieur,  I,  too,  heard  it  there  long  ago  !  I  was 
a  child  then,  and  I  was  there  alone  with  Barbara  Black." 

"I,  too,  was  alone  with  Barbara  Black,"  thought  Lei- 
cester, but  he  only  said  ;  "  Do  not  distress  yoirseli  Miss 
Shirley — believe  me  that  mysterious  voice  is  not  super- 
natural 1  " 

"What,  then,  is  it.?" 

"That  I  do  not  altogether  know.  I  have  a  suspicion  ; 
if  it  prove  a  certainty,  you  will  yet  be  able  to  laugh  over 
to-day's  terror.  Meantime,  I  have  something  else  to  speak 
to  you  about,  as  I  believe  this  is  the  only  time  since  I 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


iSl 


have  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  that  we  have  ever 
been  for  five  minutes  completely  alone  together." 

Vivia  turned  pale,  and  drawing  her  hand  suddenly  from 
his  arm,  stooped  to  gather  the  daisies  growing  under  their 
feet.  He  looked  at  her  with  a  smile  that  had  a  little  of 
sarcasm  in  it. 

"■  AxQ.  you  aware,  Miss  Shirley,  we  are  to  be  married  in 
a  fortnight?" 

Vivia,  with  a  pale  face  and  startled  eyes,  looked  round 
her  for  a  moment,  as  if  meditating  flight ;  and  Leicester, 
with  an  inward  laugh  at  her  evident  dread  of  a  love-scene 
took  her  hand  and  held  it  firmly. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  know  we  are  to  be  married,  Vivia }  " 

"Yes,  monsieur,"  very  faintly. 

"You  know,  too,  that  I  leave  to-morrow  for  London  to 
arrange  the  final  settlements,  and  will  not  return  till  with- 
in a  day  or  two  before  the  wedding  ? " 

"  Yes,  monsieur." 

"  And  though  I  never  had  an  opportunity  of  telling  you 
so,  you  know,  of  course,  I  love  you  }  " 

"Grandmamma  told  me  so,  monsieur." 

Leicester  smiled  outright  at  this  ;  but  as  s'le  was  not 
looking,  it  did  not  matter.  Without  lifting  her  e y-s,  she 
tried  to  release  her  hand. 

"  Please  to  let  me  go.  Monsieur  Cliffe." 

"You'll  run  away  if  I  do." 

"No  ;  but  it  is  time  we  were  returning  to  the  house  ; 
the  dinner-bell  will  ring  directly." 

"  One  moment  only.  As  we  are  to  be  married  so  soon, 
it  strikes  me  I  should  like  to  know  whether  or  not  you  care 
for  me. " 

With  her  released  hand  Vivia  was  tearing  mercilessly  to 
pieces  the  daisies  she  had  pulled.  She  was  silent  so  long, 
with  face  averted,  that  he  repeated  the  question. 

"Mademoiselle  does  not  answer." 

"  If  I  do  not  answer,  monsieur,"  she  said  with  infinite 
composure,  looking  straight  before  her,  "it  is  because  I 
was  thinking  how  to  say  what  I  feel  on  the  subject.  If 
I  marry  you,  I  shall  love  you — depend  on  that.  Your 
honor,  or  as  much  of  it  as  will  be  in  my  keeping,  shall  be 
dearer  to  me  than  my  own  life,  and  your  happiness  will 
be  the  most  sacred  thing  to  me  on  earth.  But  as  for  love, 
such  as  I  have  read  of  and  heard  of  from   other  girls,  I 


^1 


*■  I 


i  t. 


I       I       .1 


hi 


I ; 


X83 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


know  nothingf  of  it,  and  if  you  ask  me  for  passion,  I  have 
it  not  to  give.  I  love  my  papa  best  of  all  on  earth  ;  nejct 
to  him,  and  in  a  different  way,  1  respect  and" — a  little 
tremor  of  the  voice — "and  love  you.  And,  monsieur,  I 
shall  be  your  true  and  faithful  wife  until  death  !  " 

In  speaking,  they  had  drawn  near  to  the  Nun's  Grave 
without  noticing  it.  They  were  standing  on  its  verge 
now,  and  one  of  them  remembered  how  he  had  stood 
there  last,  and  how  different  a  love  had  been  given  him 
then. 

Much  as  he  admired  the  heiress  of  Castle  Cliffe,  noble 
and  high-minded,  unworthy  as  he  felt  himself  to  touch 
the  hem.  of  her  dress,  he  knew  that  Barbara  was  a  thou- 
sand times  more  to  his  taste.  Miss  Shirley  was  an  angel, 
and  he  was  a  great  deal  too  much  of  the  earth  earthy,  not 
to  prefer  the  dark,  passionate  daughter  of  his  own  world. 
He  did  not  want  to  marry  an  angel.  Had  M:'ss  Shirley 
been  a  fisherman's  daughter,  he  would  as  so<^n  have 
thought  of  falling  in  love  with  a  drift  of  sea-foam  as  she. 
But  it  was  too  late  for  all  such  thoughts  now,  and  he 
■•pressed  a  sigh,  and  looked  down  at  the  fallen  tree. 
He  star*erl  to  see  the  carved  initials  staring  him  full  in 
the  face,  ike  reproachful  ghosts,  and  the  guilty  blood 
came  crimson  to  his  brow.  Vivia  saw  them,  too,  and 
was  looking  at  them  curiously. 

' '  Do  look  at  this,  monsieur  !  '  B.  B.  and  L.  S.  C. '  Why, 
those  last  are  your  ii'tials  !     Did  you  carve  them  ?  " 

"  I  think  so — yes,     he  said,  carelessly. 

"And  whose  are  the  others  ?  " 

Leicester  Cliffe  did  not  like  the  idea  of  willfully  telling 
a  lie,  but  it  would  never  do  to  say  "  Barbara  Black,"  so 
he  answered,  with  the  guilty  color  high  in  his  face  : 

"I  don't  know.  There  is  the  five  minutes'  bell  ;  had 
we  not  better  return  to  the  house  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  so.  What  will  grandmamma  say?  I 
have  been  fully  an  hour  rambling  about  the  place,  and  I 
love  every  tree  and  stone  in  it,  even  that  frightful,  charm- 
ing, and  romantic  Queen's  Room.  It  is  like  paradise, 
this  place — is  it  not,  monsieur?'' 

"Any  place  would  be  hke  paradise  to  me  where  you 
were,  Vivia." 

She  laughed  gayly,  and  they  walked  away  under  the 
elms  and  disappeared.  And  neither  dreamed  of  the  un- 
seen listener  who  had  heard  every  word. 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQ(/A 


i8j 


I' 


CHAPTER  XX. 


ACCEPTED. 


Away  beyond  the  Nun's  Grave  the  green  lanes  and 
winding  avenues  of  Cliffe  Park  lost  themselves  in  a  dry, 
arid  marsh,  where  tall  blue  rockets  and  flame-colored 
flowers  danced  crazy  fandangos  in  the  wind ;  where  the 
sheep  and  cattle  grazed  in  the  rank  grass,  and  where  wild 
strawberries  were  sown  like  scarlet  stars  on  the  golden 
June  evening  when  the  betrothed  lovers  stood  talking  by 
the  fallen  elm.  At  the  head  of  the  grave  was  a  wild 
jungle  of  tall  fern,  and  juniper,  and  reeds,  shaded  by  thick 
elms  and  beeches — a  lonely  spot,  in  whose  greenish  black 
gloom  many  a  dark  deed  might  be  committed,  and  no 
one  the  wiser,  a  place  as  gloomy,  and  silent,  and  lonely 
as  the  heart  of  a  primeval  forest. 

But  it  was  not  deserted  now.  Crouching  among  the 
fern  and  reedy  blossoms  was  a  figure  in  white — a  slender, 
girlish  figure,  with  crimson  buds  wreathed  in  the  bands 
of  her  shining  dark  hair — a  figure  that,  on  coming  toward 
the  Nun's  Grave,  had  discovered  two  others  approaching 
it  from  the  opposite  direction,  and  had  shrank  down  here 
out  of  sight. 

Unseen  and  unheard,  she  had  listened  to  the  whole 
conversation  ;  and  it  was  well  nr'ither  saw  the  terrible 
eyes  gleaming  upon  them  from  the  green  vines,  or  they 
scarcely  would  have  walked  back  to  the  dinner-table  as 
composedly  and  as  happily  as  they  did.  She  had  started 
at  first,  flushing  redder  than  the  flowers  in  her  hair ;  but 
this  had  passed  away  as  quickly  as  it  came  ;  and  as  she 
half  sat,  half  knelt,  and  listened,  she  seemed  slowly  petri- 
fying, turning  from  stone  to  ice. 

Long  after  they  went  away  she  knelt  there,  like  some- 
thing carved  in  marble,  her  dress  and  face  all  one  color, 
her  eyes  looking  straight  before  her  with  a  dull,  glazed, 
vacant  stare.     So  long  she  knelt,  that  the  red  lances  of 


ii 

!i 


i'l 


![' 


^' 


»  i' 


I  i 


1S4 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


sunset  piercing  the  shifting  green  gloom  had  died  out  one 
by  one,  and  the  evening  wind  sighing  from  the  sea  stirred 
restlessly  in  the  branches  of  the  elms  overhead.  Then 
she  arose,  with  a  face  that  no  one  had  ever  seen  Barbara 
Black  wear  before.  She  been  seen  in  sorrow,  in  anger, 
in  pride,  and  joy  ;  but  never  with  a  face  like  that,  so  set, 
so  stone-like,  so  rigidly  calm.  She  might  have  been  a 
galvanized  corpse  ;  only  no  corpse  ever  had  eyes  wherein 
the  light  of  life  burned  with  so  fierce  and  steady  a 
glare. 

She  had  not  gone  to  Cliftonlea  that  day  to  see  the  tri- 
umphal procession  enter ;  always  jealously  proud,  she 
was  more  exclusively  so  now  than  ever,  for  tlie  sake  of 
another.  Oh,  no  ;  it  would  never  do  for  the  future  bride 
of  Leicester  Cliffe  to  be  splashed  with  the  mud  of  his 
rliaiiot-wheels,  like  the  rest  of  the  common  herd  ;  so, 
smiling  in  heart,  she  had  dressed  herself  in  the  flowing 
white  robes  of  the  May  Queen,  in  which  he  had  seen  her 
first,  and  gone  forth  like  a  bride  to  meet  him. 

Of  course,  he  had  been  dreaming  of  her  all  day,  and 
losing  his  sleep  thinking  of  her  all  night,  and  fretting 
himself  into  a  fever  ever  .since  he  went  away,  to  get  back 
to  love  and  her- -men  always  do  in  such  cases  !  Of 
course,  the  first  visit  of  so  ardent  a  lover  would  be  to  the 
spot  made  sacred  by  their  plighted  vows  ;  and  she  would 
be  there,  beautiful  and  radiant  in  her  bridal  robes,  and 
be  the  first  to  greet  him  home  !  Young  ladies  in  love  are 
invariably  fools,  and  they  generally  get  a  fool's  reward. 
Barbara  was  no  exception  ;  and  verily  she  had  her  re- 
ward. 

As  she  rose  up  and  turned  away,  she  tottered,  and 
leaned  for  a  moment  against  a  tree,  with  both  hands 
clasped  hard  over  her  heart. 

"Oh,  fool  !  fool  !  fool  !  "  she  cried  out,  in  bitter  scorn 
of  herself.  "Poor,  pitiful  fool  !  to  think  that  this  heart 
should  quail  for  one  instant,  though  trodden  under  the 
feet  of  such  a  traitor  and  bastard  as  that  ! " 

There  was  a  strong  net-work  of  the  tall,  rank  vines  in 
her  path,  but  she  brushed  them  aside  like  a  cobweb,  and 
went  on  over  the  arid  marsh  on  her  way  to  the  gates. 
Bubbling  from  a  rock  very  near  them,  and  sparkling  clear 
and  bright  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  overhanging  fern, 
was  a  crystal  spring,  with  a  sea-nymph  watching  over  it, 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


>85 


and  a  beautiful  little  drinking-cup,  made  from  a  sea-shell, 
hanging  from  the  stone  girdle  round  its  waist. 

Barbara  filled  the  cup,  and  was  raising  it  to  her  lips, 
when  she  stopped.  For  the  carved  face  of  the  goddess 
was  that  of  Victoria  Shirley,  and  carved  on  the  rose- 
tinted  shell  were  the  words  : 

"Victoria  Rcgia." 

Barbara  drew  her  white  lips  off  her  glistening  teeth  with 
a  low,  derisive  laugh,  and  dashed  the  shell  so  furiously 
against  the  statue  that  it  shiverocl  on  its  stone  bosom  into 
a  hundred  fragments. 

"Oh,  if  that  pretty,  rosy,  smiling  face  were  only  here, 
how  I  could  beat  out  every  trace  of  its  wax-doll  beauty, 
and  send  it  back,  hideous  and  lacerated,  for  him  to  kiss  !  " 
she  said,  looking  at  the  unmoved  smile  on  the  stone  face 
with  the  eyes  of  a  tigress.  "  Pretty  little  devil  !  If  that 
were  she  in  reality,  instead  of  her  stone  image,  how  I 
could  throttle  her  as  she  stands  !  Why,  I  would  rather 
drink  poison  than  anything  on  which  she  had  looked — 
sooner  touch  my  lips  to  red-hot  iron  than  to  anything 
bearing  her  name  !  " 

She  literally  hissed  the  words  through  her  set  teeth, 
without  raising  her  voice  ;  and  casting  one  parting  look 
with  the  same  wolfish  eyes  on  the  smiling  block  of  stone, 
she  hurried  on  through  the  park  gates  and  into  the  cot- 
tage, just  as  the  last  little  pink  cloud  of  sunset  was  dip- 
ping and  fading  behind  the  distant  hills. 

The  cottage  looked  disorderly  and  uncomfortable  as 
usual,  with  piles  of  nets,  and  oars,  and  fish-baskets,  and 
oil-cloth  garments  scattered  in  the  corners,  and  chairs 
and  tables  at  sixes  and  sevens,  and  perfumed  with  the 
usual  ancient  and  fish-like  smell.  A  wood  fire  burned  on 
the  hearth,  and  the  green  wood  did  not  mend  matters 
by  vomiting  puffs  of  smoke,  and  the  kettle  on  the  crane 
seemed  in  a  fair  v/ay  to  boil  somv?  time  before  midnight. 

In  a  chair  in  the  chimney-corner,  smoking  serenely^ 
sat  Mr.  Peter  Black,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his  hat  on 
his  head,  and  his  eyes  on  the  fire  ;  and  Barbara,  entering, 
a  spotless  and  shining  vision,  made  him  look  up.  Mr. 
Black  did  more  than  look  up — he  stared,  with  his  eyes 
open  to  the  widest  possible  extent. 

"  Good  Lord  !  "  said  Mr.  Black,  still  staring,  in  the  ut- 
most consternation,  "what  is  the  matter  with  the  girl  ?  " 


:>f 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


z 


1.0 


I.I 


11.25 


l^|Z8 

■  50     *^~ 

^  Bii    |2.2 


us 


M.  ill  1.6 


-    6" 


v] 


v^ 


7: 


'/ 


>«^ 


Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  M580 

(716)  872-4503 


i86 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


H 


Barbara  took  a  long  drink  of  water,  and  then  coming 
over,  rested  her  arm  on  the  mantel,  and  faced  him  with 
perfect  composure. 

"What  is  it,  father?" 

"  What  the  deuce  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  You  look  as 
though  you  had  been  dead  a  week. " 

"Am  I  pale?" 

"Pale?  It's  quite  horrible,  I  tell  you.  Have  you  seen 
aghost?'* 

"Yes,  father." 

Mr.  Black's  jaw  dropped  so  suddenly  at  this  announce- 
ment, and  his  eyes  opened  so  wide,  that  there  seemed 
strong  danger  of  their  never  being  able  to  regain  their 
natural  position  again. 

"  What— what's  that  you  said? " 

"That  I  had  seen  a  ghost,  father — the  ghost  of  truth 
and  honor  forever  dead." 

Before  Mr.  Black  could  frame  an  answer  to  this  speech, 
which  was  to  him  as  inscrutable  as  Greek,  the  door  opened, 
and  old  Judith,  attired  in  promenade  costume — that  is,  a 
faded  scarlet  cloak,  with  a  hood  thrown  over  her  head- 
entered. 

Now,  Judith's  promenading  at  all  beyond  three  yards 
of  her  own  threshold  was  so  very  unusual  and  striking  a 
circumstance,  that  Barbara  turned  to  look  at  her,  and  Mr. 
Black  actually  took  the  pipe  from  his  lips,  and  stared,  if 
possible,  harder  than  ever: 

"Why,  grandmother,"  said  Barbara,  "  where  have  you 
been?" 

The  old  woman  threw  back  the  hood  of  her  cloak,  and 
showed  an  animated  and  sprightly  countenance  as  she 
drew  up  her  chair  and  held  out  her  hands,  with  a  shiver, 
to  the  blaze. 

"Ah,"  said  Mr.  Black,  still  holding  his  pipe,  and  still 
staring,  "  that's  just  what  I  should  like  to  know.  Where 
have  you  been  ?  " 

"Up  to  Cliftonlea,  to  be  sure,"  said  Judith,  with  a  low, 
dry,  cackling  laugh,  and  a  sly  look  out  of  her  eyes,  first 
at  her  granddaughter  and  then  at  her  son.  "Everybody 
went,  and  why  couldn't  I  go  among  the  rest  ?  " 

Mr.  Black  gave  vent  to  his  suppressed  feelings  in  a  deep 
bass  oath,  and  Barbara  stood  looking  at  her  steadily  out 
of  her  great  dark  eyes. 


\  \ 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


187 


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f  truth 

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>pened, 
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head — 

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as  she 
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[id  still 
Where 

a  low, 
es,  first 
rybody 

a  deep 
iily  out 


Old  Judith  cackled  again,  and  rubbed  her  hands. 

"  It  was  a  fine  sight,  a  grand  sight,  a  brave  sight— finer 
than  anything  even  in  the  theater.  There  were  the  arches 
v/ith  her  name  on  'em  ;  and  flags  a-flying ;  and  flowers 
all  along  the  road  for  her  wheels  to  go  over  ;  and  there 
were  four  shining  horses  all  covered  with  silver,  holding 
up  their  heads  as  if  they  were  proud  of  her,  and  walking 
on  the  flowers  as  if  they  scorned  them  and  the  common 
folks  who  threw  them  ;  and  there  was  she,  among  all  the 
grand  ladies  and  gentlemen,  with  her  sUk  dress  rustling, 
and  her  eyes  like  blue  stars,  and  her  cheeks  like  pink 
velvet,  and  her  smile  like — ah,  like  an  angel,  and  she  a- 
flinging  of  handfuls  of  silver  among  the  poor  children,  as 
if  it  was  dirt,  and  she  despised  it.  Ah,  she  is  a  great  lady 
— a  great  lady  !  " 

Old  Judith  rubbed  her  hands  so  hard  that  there  seemed 
some  danger  of  her  flaying  them,  and  looked  alternately 
at  her  son  and  granddaughter,  with  a  glance  of  such 
mingled  shyness,  cunning,  andexuKation,  that  the  gentle- 
man got  exasperated. 

"What  in  blazes,"  inquired  Mr.  Black,  putting  it  tem- 
perately, *  *  is  the  blessed  old  scarecrow  a-talking  of  ?  She 
can't  have  beeen  drinking,  can  she  ? "  Though  the  ad- 
jective Mr.  Black  used  was  not  exactly  "blessed,"  and 
though  the  look  with  which  he  favored  his  tender  parent 
was  not  the  blandest,  yet  old  Judith  cackled  her  shrill 
laugh  again,  and  diving  one  skinny  arm  into  the  greasy 
depths  of  a  pocket  by  her  side,  fished  up  a  handful  of  silver 
coins. 

"Look  at  them!  "cried  the  old  lady,  thrusting  them 
very  near  Mr.  Black's  nose,  with  an  exultant  gleam  in  her 
greenish  black  eyes.  "  Look  at  them  !  She  saw  me  sit- 
ting by  the  road-side,  and  she  threw  them  to  me  as  she 
rode  past,  and  asked  for  Barbara.  Stop — keep  off — it's 
mine  ;  give  me  my  money,  Barbara." 

Across  Barbara's  white  face  there  had  shot  a  sudden 
crimson  streak,  and  m  each  of  Barbara's  eyes  there  had 
leaped  a  demon.  She  had  clutched  the  skinny  arm  of  the 
old  woman  in  a  hand  like  iron,  and  wrenched  the  money 
from  her  avaricious  clutch,  and  dashed  it  with  all  her 
might  through  the  window ,  smashing  the  glass  as  it  went. 
Then,  without  a  word,  she  resumed  her  place  at  the 
mantel ;  but  father  and  grandmother  sprang  to  their  feet. 


!       ; 


i88 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


It 


f :    111 


the  one  with  a  savage  oath,  the  other  with  a  shrill  and 
angry  scream. 

• '  What's  all  this  for  ?  "  demanded  Mr.  Black,  looking 
fiercely  at  his  ungovernable  daughter.  ' '  What  the  deuce 
has  got  into  the  girl  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  quiet  eye. 

"You've  said  it,  father — the  evil  spirit  is  in  me  ! " 

"My  money  is  gone,  all  my  money,"  whined  old 
Judith,  who  stood  in  mortal  dread  of  her  tameless  grand- 
daughter. "All  my  money,  and  there  was  three  crowns, 
two  half-crowns,  and  a  fi'-penny  bit  !  And  she  gave  it  to 
me,  too,  all  for  myself — the  pretty  young  lady." 

* '  What  did  you  do  it  for,  you " 

Mr.  Black  paused  with  the  epithet  on  his  tongue,  for 
something  like  the  savage  light  in  his  own  eyes  shone  in 
his  daughter's  and  warned  him  that  it  would  be  safer 
unsaid. 

"That's  not  much,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  with  a 
strange  laugh.  ' '  What  would  you  say  if  I  murdered  some- 
body and  was  going  to  be  hanged  }  " 

"Oh,  the  girl's  gone  mad,  stark,  staring  mad  !  "  said 
Mr.  Black,  staring  again,  until  his  eyes  seemed  starting 
from  their  sockets. 

"No,  father." 

"Curse  it,  then,"  he  cried,  ferociously,  "what  do  you 
mean  by  looking  and  acting  like  this?  Stop  glowering 
on  me  like  that,  or  I'll  smash  your  face  for  you  as  I  would 
smash  an  egg-shell." 

"And  this  is  my  father,"  said  Barbara,  with  the  same 
wild  laugh  ;  and  turning  toward  the  door.  "  Don't  try  it, 
father,  it  would  not  be  safe.     Good-evening  to  you  both." 

She  walked  rapidly  out  and  down  toward  the  shore, 
with  a  step  that  rang  like  steel  on  the  rocks.  A  slender 
new  moon  was  rising  away  in  the  east,  and  its  radiance 
silvered  the  waves  and  Kghted  the  long,  white,  sandy 
beach,  and  black  piles  of  sea-weedy  rocks  above  them. 
The  tide  was  far  out,  and  Barbara  strode  over  the  wet 
shingle  and  slippery  seaweed,  heeding  them  no  more 
than  if  she  were  gliding  over  a  moonlit  lawn,  and  never 
stopped  until  she  found  herself  within  the  gloomy  pre- 
cincts of  the  Demon's  Tower.  Then  she  glanced  round 
with  a  look  the  arch-fiend  himself  might  have  envied. 

' '  Here,  six  years  ago,  I  saved  her  life, "  she  said.      * '  Oh, 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


189 


beautiful  heiress  of  Castle  Cliffe,  if  that  hour  would  only 
come  back,  and  I  were  looking  down  on  your  dying 
struggles,  as  I  could  have  done  that  night  1 " 

She  leaned  against  the  dark  archway,  and  looked 
over  the  rocks.  The  scene  was  placid  and  serene ;  the 
waves  murmured  low  on  the  sands  ;  the  boats  glided  over 
the  moon-tinted  waters,  and  a  gay  party  of  fishermen's 
girls,  their  boat  floating  idly  on  the  long,  lazy  swell,  were 
singing  the  "Evening  Hymn"  and  the  earnest,  devo- 
tional words  came  clear  and  sweet  to  where  she  stood. 

But  they  had  no  salutary  or  soothing  effect  on  the  per- 
turbed heart.  It  was  no  "whisper  of  Heaven"  that 
changed  Barbara's  face  so  strangely  as  she  listened.  Her 
bent  brow  grew  rigid  and  stern,  her  eye  darkened  with 
deadly  resolve,  her  lips  compressed  with  resolute  deter- 
mination, her  hands  clenched  until  the  nails  sunk  into 
the  rosy  flesh,  and  her  very  figure  seemed  to  dilate  and 
grow  tall  with  the  deadliest  resolve  new-born  within  her. 

"Barbara!"  A  gentle  voice  behind  pronounced  the 
name,  but  she  never  moved  or  turned  round.  "Bar'  ara, 
my  dear  girl,  what  are  you  doing  here  alone  in  this  place, 
and  at  this  hour  ?  " 

"Thinking,  Mr.  Sweet." 

Mr.  Sweet,  shining  with  subdued  yellow  luster  in  the 
white  moonlight,  got  over  the  rocks,  with  a  face  full  of 
concern,  and  stood  beside  her. 

"And  your  hands,  Barbara — what  ails  them?  They 
are  bleeding," 

She  had  cut  them  while  coming  over  the  rocks,  without 
ever  knowing  it ;  and  now  she  looked  down  at  the  flow- 
ing blood  with  an  icy  smile. 

"It  is  nothing.  I  have  been  bleeding  inwardly  for  the 
last  two  or  three  hours,  so  I  am  not  likely  to  mind  such 
a  trifle  as  torn  hands." 

"Poor  little  hands,"  said  Mr.  Sweet,  tenderly,  as  he 
took  out  his  handkerchief  and  began  wiping  away  the 
blood.  "  My  dear,  dear  Barbara,  what  is  the  meaning 
of  all  this?" 

"Your  dear  Barbara!  How  many  have  you  called 
dear,  besides  me,  to-day,  Mr.  Sweet  ? " 

"  No  one  ;  you  alone  are  dear  to  me,  Barbara." 

"Oh,  to  be  sure  !  Men  always  say  that,  and  always 
mean  it,  and  always  are  true.     I  believe  you,  of  course.'' 


i '? 


11 


t9o 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


"i^V- 


"  How  bitter  you  are  I  " 

"Not  at  all.  Broken  vows  and  broken  hearts  are  such 
every-day  matters,  that  it  is  hardly  worth  while  growing 
bitter  over  them." 

*'  So  I "  said  the  lawyer,  looking  at  her  steadily.  "So 
you've  heard  all  ? " 

"Everything,  Mr.  Sweet." 

"Who  told  you?" 

"A  little  bird  ;  or,  perhaps,  I  dreamed  it?  Is  it  such 
a  mystery,  then,  that  Miss  Shirley  and  Mr.  Cliffe  are  to 
be  man  and  wife  ? " 

"It  is  a  fact,  but  it  is  also  a  secret.  Lady  Agnes  told 
me  as  soon  as  she  arrived  ;  but  she  also  told  me  no  one 
knew  it  here  but  myself.  Where  can  you  have  heard  it, 
Barbara?" 

* '  Would  you  like  to  know  ? " 

"Yes." 

"It  is  quite  romantic.  I  dressed  myself,  as  you  see, 
to  meet  my  love  ;  for  I  beg  to  inform  you  that  the  heir 
of  Clififewood  and  the  fisherman's  daughter  were  engaged. 
He  came,  but  not  alone,  to  the  try  sting-place — Miss  Shir- 
ley was  with  him,  and  they  had  quite  an  animated  talk 
over  their  approaching  nuptials.  Some  initials  were  cut 
upon  a  tree,  his  and  mine,  and  it  was  his  hand  that  carved 
them ;  but  I  heard  him  deny  it,  with  as  much  composure 
as  any  vulgar  liar  who  never  had  an  ancestor  in  the 
world." 

"Barbara,  how  strangely  you  talk,  and  how  wild  you 
look.  Your  hand  is  like  ice ;  you  are  ill, "  he  said,  really 
alarmed. 

"Don't  distress  yourself,  Mr.  Sweet.  I  am  perfectly 
well." 

"  May  I  lalk  to  you,  then  ?  Will  you  listen  to  what  I 
have  to  say  ? " 

"  With  all  the  pleasure  in  life." 

"Will  you  answer  my  questions  ?" 

"Begin." 

"  You  love  Leicester  Cliffe  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  He  said  he  loved  you  ? " 

"He  did." 

"He  promised  to  marry  you  ?  " 

"Yes." 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


X9t 


*'Do  you  love  him  still?  " 

**  Just  at  present,  very  much." 

*'  You  know  he  is  to  be  married  to  Miss  Shirley  in  two 
weeks  ? " 

"  I  think  I  had  the  pleasure  of  hearing  himself  mention 
the  fact." 

"You  know  that  you  have  been  slighted,  scorned, 
jilted,  cast  off  for  her  ?  ' 

"I  don't  need  you  to  remind  me  of  that,  my  good 
friend." 

"You  are  a  woman.  Slighted  women,  they  say,  nevef 
forgive.     Barbara,  would  you  be  revenged  ?  " 

"Such  is  my  intention,  Mr.  Sweet." 

There  was  such  deadly  intensity  of  purpose  in  her  very 
quietude,  as  she  said  it,  that  it  chilled  even  Mr.  Sweet  for 
an  instant — albeit  lawyers'  blood  does  not  easily  run 
cold. 

"  How  }  "  he  asked,  looking  at  her  earnestly. 

"That  is  my  affair,  sir." 

"Shall  I  tell  you  of  a  speedy  revenge,  that  he  will  feel, 
as  you  alone  can  make  him  feel  ?  " 

"You  may." 

"A  revenge,"  said  Mr.  Sweet,  his  very  voice  trembling 
with  eagerness — "a  revenge  that  will  pierce  his  heart 
like  an  arrow  from  its  shaft — a  revenge  that  will  make 
him  feel  that  he  is  the  jilted  one,  and  not  you?  " 

''Name  it?" 

"Marry  me  !" 

"Bah  !  "  said  she,  looking  down  on  him  with  her  scorn- 
ful eyes.  "As  if  he  could  not  see  through  such  a  pitiful 
sham  as  that.  How  reasonable  it  would  look,  that  I 
would  forsake  the  heir  of  Cliffewood,  the  handsomest  man 
in  Sussex,  for  a  poor,  paltry  attorney,  old  enough  to  be 
my  father,  and  who  was  certainly  behind  the  door  when 
beauty  was  given  out." 

The  saiiow  face  of  the  lawyer  turned  actually  scarlet 
for  one  moment ;  but  the  next,  he  laughed  his  gay  and 
musical  laugh. 

' '  Well,^  I  don't  set  up  for  a  beauty,  Barbara,  and  you 
know  Madame  De  Stael  says  men  have  the  privilege  of 
looking  ugly.  You  have  not  answered  my  question. 
Will  you  marry  me  ? " 

** No,"  she  said,  coldly.     "What  good  would  it  do ? " 


11 


I  ■' 


193 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


"Only  this.  The  young  gentleman  leaves  to-morrow 
for  London,  and  will  not  return  until  next  Tuesday.  As 
he  returns,  let  his  first  greeting  be  the  news  that  Barbara 
Black  is  married  !     Think  h  jw  he  will  feel  that !  " 

"  He  will  not  care." 

"He  will.  A  man  never  likes  the  woman  who  has 
once  loved  him  to  marry  another,  whether  or  not  he  has 
ceased  to  love  her  himself  He  never  loved  you,  that  is 
plain  ;  but  it  will  cut  him  to  the  quick,  nevertheless,  to 
find  you  care  so  little  for  him  as  to  be  the  bride  of  an- 
other. " 

"  If  I  thought  he  would  care  1 "  said  Barbara,  breath- 
ing quick. 

"  He  would  care.  And  if  he  ever  had  the  smallest 
spark  of  love  for  you,  it  will  spring  into  a  flame  the  mo- 
ment he  finds  he  has  lost  you  forever.  Think  what  a 
triumph  it  would  be  for  him  to  bear  off  his  beautiful  bride 
in  triumph,  while  he  fancied  you  were  pining  here  like  a 
love-lorn  damsel,  fit  to  cry  your  eyes  out  for  his  sweet 
sake  !  " 

Her  eye  was  kindling,  her  cheek  flushing,  her  breath 
coming  quick  and  fast,  but  she  did  not  speak. 

"You  shall  be  a  lady,  too,  Barbara,"  said  the  phleg- 
matic Mr.  Sweet,  kindling,  for  once,  into  something  Hke 
excitement.  "You  shall  hold  up  your  head  with  the 
highest  in  the  land — yes,  higher  than  she  has  ever  held 
hers,  with  its  yellow  curls.  You  shall  be  a  lady,  Barbara ; 
yes,  I  uwear  it !  " 

Barbara  laughed,  something  like  her  old  laugh. 

"You  are  simply  talking  nonsense,  Mr.  Sweet.  Neither 
you  or  anybody  else  can  change  me  from  what  God  made 
me — a  fisherman's  daughter." 

"You  were  never  made  -.  fisherman's  daughter !"  he 
said,  energetically,  and  *.aen  he  stopped  and  knit  his 
brows,  and  changed  his  tone.  "But,  Barbara,  if  you 
want  revenge,  marry  me.  I  am  a  rich  man,  and  Mrs. 
Leicester  Cliffe  will  not  long  look  down  on  Mrs.  Sylvester 
Sweet,  depend  on  that." 

"You  are  very  kind,  but  I  am  not  quite  so  bad  as  to 
take  you  at  your  word  ;  for,  rest  assured,  if  you  married 
me,  you  would  repent  it,  in  mental  sackcloth  and  ashes, 
all  the  rest  of  your  life." 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


«93 


<!' 


'  I  will  risk  it !  "  he  said,  with  an  incredulous  smile. 
•*Or.ly  consent." 

"If  I  do,  you  will  repent." 

"No." 

"  I  have  no  love  for  you.  I  cannot  answer  for  myself. 
It  shall  never  be  said  that  I  entrapped  you  or  any  one 
else  into  a  marriage,  for  my  own  ends.  Nothing  but  evil 
can  come  from  a  connection  with  me.  I  am  not  good  ; 
and  so  I  tell  you." 

"You  are  good  enough  for  me  ;  for  I  love  you." 

"  You  will  have  it,  I  see.  Remember,  if  I  consent,  and 
you  repent  of  it  afterward,  you  have  been  Vv'arned." 

"  I  take  all  the  risk,  so  that  I  can  take  you  with  it." 

"  Very  well,  then,  Mr.  Sweet,"  she  said,  quietly.  "I 
will  marry  you  whenever  you  like." 


i8 


i  \^ 


ler  breath 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


BARBARAS    BRIDAL    EVE. 

**  Where  is  Barbara  ? " 

Mr.  Sweet  was  the  speaker,  and  Mr.  Sweet  was  leaning 
in  Barbara's  favorite  position  on  the  mantel,  beating  an 
impatient  tattoo  on  its  smoky  ledge,  and  looking  down  on 
old  Judith,  who  sat,  very  blear-eyed  and  very  grimy  with 
smoke,  on  a  low  stool  facing  the  hearth.  Breakfast  was 
just  over  in  the  cottage,  for  a  quantity  of  very  sloppy 
earthenware  strewed  the  table. 

"  Where  is  Barbara  ? "  repeated  Mr.  Sweet,  as  Judith's 
only  reply  was  to  blink  and  look  at  him  with  a  shrewd 
smile. 

"In  her  own  room.     Ah  !  you've  done  it  at  last,  sir  I  " 

"Done  what?  " 

"  What  you  always  said  you  would  do— make  her  marry 
you." 

"She  hasn't  married  me  yet  that  I  know  of" 

"No,  sir  ;  no,  of  course  not ;  but  she's  coming  to  it- 
coming  to  it  fast. " 

"  How  do  you  know  ? " 

"Mr.  Sweet,  I  ain't  blind,  though  my  old  eyes  are  red, 

13 


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WEDDED  FOR  PIQUV. 


and  watery  with  smoke ;  and  I  saw  you  coming  up  from 
the  beach  last  night,  and,  ah  I  you  was  sweet  upon  her, 
you  was,  Mr.  Sweet." 

"Well?" 

To  this  query  Old  Judith  only  grinned  in  answer ;  and 
Mr.  Sweet  relaxed  into  a  smile  himself. 

"You  are  quite  right,  said  he,  pulling  out  his  watch, 
and  glancing  at  it.      "She  has  promised  to  marry  me." 

"I  always  knew  it  I  "  cried  Judith,  rubbing  her  hands 
in  glee — "I  always  said  it !  Nobody  could  ever  hang  out 
long  against  you.  Mr.  Sweet,  you  had  the  winningest 
ways  with  you  I  Ah,  she  has  come  to  luck,  has  my  hand- 
some granddaughter  ! " 

"  It  is  a  pity  your  handsome  granddaughter  is  not  of 
the  same  opinion  as  her  amiable  grandmother.  When  can 
I  see  her  ? " 

"  Directly,  sir.  I  will  go  and  tell  her  ;  but  first — it's  no 
use  asking  her,  for  she  never  tells  me  anything — when  is 
it  going  to  be  ?  " 

"  When  is  what  going  to  be  ?  " 

"The  wedding." 

"  That  is  precisely  what  I  warn  to  know.  That  is  why 
I  have  made  such  an  early  call  on  your  handsome  grand- 
daughter this  wiorning." 

"  Didn't  you  settle  it  last  night  ?  " 

"  No.  She  told  me  she  would  marry  me  whenever  I 
liked  ;  and  then  she  turned  and  was  gone,  like  a  flash,  be- 
fore we  could  come  to  any  further  terms." 

"That  is  just  like  her,"  said  old  Judith,  no  way  aston- 
ished at  this  characteristic  trait,  as  she  walked  across  the 
room  and  rapped  at  her  granddaughter's  door.  There 
was  no  answer ;  and  she  knocked  again,  and  still  there 
was  no  reply.  Judith  turned  the  handle  of  the  door, 
which  opened  readily  ;  and  she  entered,  while  Mr.  Sweet, 
a  little  startled,  stood  on  the  threshold  and  looked  in. 

Barbara's  room  was  small,  and  not  at  all  the  immacu- 
late apartment  in  which  to  enshrine  the  heroine  of  a  story  ; 
for  dresses,  and  mantles,  and  bonnets,  and  all  sorts  of 
wearing  apparel  were  hung  round  the  walls ;  and  there 
were  two  or  three  pairs  of  boots  strewn  over  the  floor, 
with  books,  and  papers,  and  magazines  ;  and  the  table  in 
the  corrier  was  one  great  litter  of  sketches  and  engravings, 
and  novels   and  painting  materials,   and  a  guitar   (Mr. 


WEDDED    ^OR  PIQUE. 


>9S 


Sweet's  gift)  on  the  top  of  all.  There  was  a  little  easel  in 
one  corner,  for  Barbara  was  quite  an  artist ;  and  this,  with 
the  small  bed  and  one  chair,  quite  filled  the  little  chamber, 
so  that  there  was  scarcely  room  to  move. 

But  the  bed  was  neatly  made— evidently  it  had  not  been 
slept  in  the  preceding-  night ;  and  sitting  on  the  solitary 
chair  at  the  window,  in  the  gauzy-white  uress  of  the  pre- 
ceding evening,  her  arms  resting  on  the  ledge,  her  head 
on  them  was  Barbara,  fast  asleep. 

The  exclamation  of  Judith  at  the  sight  awoke  her  ;  and 
she  lifted  her  face,  and  looked  at  them  vaguely  at  first, 
a;  if  wondering  how  she  and  they  came  to  be  where  they 
were.  It  all  came  back  to  her  in  a  moment,  however ; 
and  she  rose  to  her  feet,  gathering  up  the  fallen  braids  of 
her  h^iir,  and  looking  at  Mr.  Sweet  with  a  haughty  eye. 

'*Well,  sir,"  she  demanded,  angrily,  "and  what  are 
you  doing  here? '' 

"  It  wasn't  his  fault,"  cut  in  Judith.  "  I  rapped  twice, 
and  you  never  answered,  and  I  thought  something  had 
happened,  and  I  asked  him  to  come  in." 

This  last  little  fiction  was  invented  to  avert  the  storm 
of  wrath  that  was  kindling  in  Barbara's  fiery  eye. 

•'Well,  sir,"  reiterated  Miss  Barbara,  still  transfixing 
her  disconcerted  suitor  with  her  steady  glance,  "and 
being  here,  what  do  you  want  ? " 

This  was  certainly  not  very  encouraging,  and  by  no 
means  smoothed  the  way  for  so  ardent  a  lover  to  ask 
his  lady-love  to  name  the  day.  So  Mr.  Sweet  began  in  a 
very  humble  and  subdued  tone  indeed  : 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  Miss  Barbara,  for  this  intrusion  but, 
surely,  you  have  not  been  sitting  by  that  window,  ex- 
posed to  the  draught  all  night  !  " 

"  Have  you  come  all  the  way  from  Cliftonlea,  and 
taken  the  trouble  to  wake  me  up  to  say  that,  Mr. 
Sweet  ? " 

Mr.  Sweet  thought  of  the  plastic  Barbara  he  had  had 
last  night,  and  wondered  where  she  had  gone  to.  Mr. 
Sweet  did  not  know,  perhaps,  that 

"  Colors  seen  by  candle-light 
Do  not  look  the  same  by  day," 

and  that  women,  being  like  weathercocks  or  chameleons 
are  liable  to  change  sixty  times  an  hour. 


196 


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>t  I 


i  ')■ 


"  Barbara,"  he  cried,  in  desperation,  "have  you  fo^ 
gotten  your  promise  of  last  night  ?  " 

"No." 

"It  is  on  that  subject  that  I  came  to  speak.  Can  I  not 
see  you  for  a  moment  alone  ?  " 

*' There  is  not  the  slightest  need,  sir.  If  you  have  any- 
thing to  say,  out  with  it  !  " 

For  once  in  his  life,  the  oily  and  debonair  Mr.  Sweet 
was  totally  disconcerted.  "  Not  at  home  to  suitors,"  wa8 
written  in  capital  letters  on  Barbara's  bent  brow  and  eye ; 
yet  there  was  nothing  for  him  to  do  but  to  go  on. 

"  You  said,  last  night,  Barbara,  that  you  would  marry 
me  whenever  I  liked.  That  would  be  within  this  hour, 
if  I  could  ;  and,  as  perhaps  you  would  not  fancy  so  hasty 
a  wedding,  will  you  please  to  name  some  more  definite 
date?" 

He  quailed  inwardly  as  he  spoke,  lest  she  should  retract 
the  promise  of  last  night  altogether.  He  knew  he  held 
her  only  by  a  hair,  and  that  it  was  liable  to  snap  at  any 
moment.  Her  face  looked  foreboding,  sunless,  smile- 
less,  and  dark  ;  and  the  eye,  immovably  fixed  upon  him, 
had  little  of  yielding  or  tenderness  in  it. 

"The  ♦ime  is  so  short,  Barbara,"  he  pleaded,  with  a 
sinking  heart,  "that  it  must  be  soon." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  " 

"Within  this  present  week,  Barbara,  or,  if  that  is  too 
soon,  next  Monday.  That  will  give  you  time  for  your 
preparations. " 

"I  have  no  preparations  to  make." 

"  For  mine,  then.  Do  you  consent  that  it  shall  be  next 
Monday  ?  " 

*  •  Mr.  Sweet,  I  said  last  night  it  should  be  whenever 
you  pleased.  I  say  the  same  thing  to-day  !  There,  you 
need  not  thank  me — do  me  the  favor  to  go  away." 

"  Only  one  moment,  Barbara.  You  must  have  dresses, 
you  know.  I  shall  give  orders  to  that  Frenchwoman  up 
in  Cliftonlea,  and  she  will  come  down  here  to  see  you, 
and  provide  you  with  everything  you  want." 

Barbara  stood  looking  at  him  stonily,  with  the  door  in 
her  hand.  Old  Judith  was  glancing  from  one  to  the  other 
with  her  keen  eyes. 

*  *  On  Monday  morning,  at  ten,  you  will  be  ready,  and 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


197 


I  will  drive  down  here  and  take  you  to  the  church  ;  and, 
another  thing,  you  must  have  a  bridcmaid. " 

"I  have  one  thing  to  say  to  you,  sir,"  said  Barbara, 
opening  her  compressed  hps,  "that  if  you  tornunt  me 
too  much  with  these  wretclicd  details,  there  shall  neither 
be  bridemaid  nor  bride  on  that  day.  Whatever  is  to  be 
done,  you  must  do  yourself ;  I  shall  have  neither  act  nor 
part  in  this  busmess.  Let  me  alone,  and  1  will  marry  you 
on  Monday,  since  you  wish  it.  Begin  to  harass  mc  with 
this  stupid  rubbish  about  dresses  and  bridemaids,  and  I 
will  have  nothing  whatever  to  say  to  you." 

With  which  harsh  and  decided  valedictory,  the  im- 
patient bride-elect  closed  the  Uv^or  in  their  faces,  and 
turned  the  key  inside,  to  the  unspeakable  discomposure  of 
the  lawyer,  and  the  intense  delight  of  the  amiable  old 
lady,  who  grinned  maliciously,  until  a  very  yellow  blush 
was  visible  in  her  sunken  jaws. 

' '  Oh,  it  is  a  charming  courtship,  a  charming  courtship  I  " 
she  chuckled,  rubbing  her  hands,  and  leering  sideways 
at  her  visitor,  "And  she  is  a  sweet  bri  le  she  is  !  1  wish 
you  joy  of  her,  Mr.  Sweet  !  " 

"  My  good  old  soul,"  said  that  gentleman,  bringing  the 
yellow  luster  of  his  eyes  and  smile  to  bear  on  his  friend, 
"don't  be  malicious — don't,  or  you  and  I  will  fall  out! 
Think  what  a  pity  that  would  be,  after  having  been  tried 
and  trusty  friends  so  long  !  " 

Perhaps  it  was  the  bare  idea  of  losing  the  friendship  of 
so  good  a  man,  or  perhaps  it  was  some  hidden  menace 
in  his  tone  and  look,  that  made  Judith  cower  and  shrink 
away  fearfully  under  his  calm  gaze. 

"I  expect  you  to  do  everything  in  your  power  for  me," 
he  went  on,  "  in  the  present  case.  You  see  she  is  willful, 
and  will  do  nothing  herself.  Her  promise  is  as  frail  and 
brittle  as  glass  ;  if  I  leaned  on  it  ever  so  lightly,  it  would 
shiver  into  atoms  beneath  me.  Therefore  I  cannot  venture 
to  speak  to  her.  You  must  act  for  her ;  and,  my  dear  old 
friend,  if  you  don't  act  to  the  utmost  of  your  power,  you 
will  find  yourself  within  the  stone  walls  of  Cliftonlea  jail 
before  the  wedding-day  dawns." 

"Oh,  what  can  I  do?"  whispered  old  Judith,  putting 
her  dirty  apron  to  her  eyes.  * '  I  dassent  speak  to  her. 
I'm  afraid  of  her.     Her  eyes  are  like  coals  of  fire  I    I  am 


IP' 
I 

1 ' 


;    !< 
ii 


\M 


198 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


sure  I  want  her  married  as  much  as  you  do.  I  never  have 
any  peace  with  her  at  all." 

"Very  well :  I  think  we  shall  not  fall  out.  I  am  going 
now,  and  I  will  send  my  housekeeper  down  here  for  one 
of  her  gowns,  and  the  Frenchwoman  must  make  them  by 
that,  for  Barbara  won't  be  measured,  it  appears.  Does 
my  dear  friend,  Peter  Black,  know  anything  about  this 
yet  ? " 

"  No,  he  doesn't." 

"Then  I  shall  take  the  earliest  opportunity  of  letting 
him  know.  I  would  like  to  have  my  intended  father-in- 
law's  blessing,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.     Where  is  he  ? " 

"  Oh,  where  he  always  is — drinking  gin  and  water  at 
the  Cliffe  Arms. " 

**  Dear,  imprudent  boy  !  I  suppose  he  requires  a  gentle 
stimulant  to  keep  up  his  spirits.  Good-morning,  Mistress 
Judith  ;  and  try  if  the  future  Mrs.  Sweet  will  not  partake 
of  some  breakfast !  " 

With  this  parting  piece  of  advice,  the  pleasant  lawyer 
walked  away,  drawing  on  his  gloves,  and  humming  gayly, 
"The  Time  I've  lost  in  Wooing." 

Judith  did  not  take  his  advicii,  however,  regarding  the 
breakfast.  She  would  almost  as  soon  have  put  her  head 
inside  a  lion's  den  as  into  the  little  room  where  her  hand- 
some granddaughter  sat.  It  needed  no  second-sight  to 
see  that  the  old  woman  stood  in  the  greatest  awe  of  the 
grave,  majestic  girl,  who  looked  at  people  so  strangely 
and  wild  out  of  her  dark,  spectral  eyes — an  awe  which, 
truth  to  tell,  her  sulky  and  savage  son  shared.  The  dogged 
and  suliv.  ^  ferocity  of  the  man  cowered  rmder  the  fiercer 
and  higher  jpirit  of  his  daughter,  and  Miss  Black,  for  the 
last  two  or  three  years,  had  pretty  much  reigned  Lady 
Paramount  in  the  cottage.  The  gray  mare,  in  that  stable, 
was  by  long  odds  the  better  horse. 

So  Judith  lighted  her  pipe,  and  sat  on  her  stool  by  the 
smouldering  fire,  and  she  and  it  puffed  out  little  clouds  of 
smoke  together,  and  the  big  brass  hands  of  the  old  Dutch 
clock  went  swinging  round  to  twelve  and  nobody  entered 
the  cottage,  and  no  sound  came  from  the  little  chamber, 
and  the  future  Mrs.  Sweet  got  no  breakfast,  when,  at  last, 
a  shadow  darkened  the  sunny  door-way,  and  a  meek  little 
woman  presented  herself  and  claimed  the  honor  of  being 
Mr.  Sweet's  housekeeper. 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


«99 


Luckily  there  was  a  dress  of  Barbara's  hangincf  in  the 
kitcher.,  or  Judith  would  have  been  between  the  horns  of 
a  very  sad  dilemma,  in  fea.  of  the  lawyer  on  one  hand; 
and  the  young  lady  on  the  other  ;  and  the  meek  little 
matron  rolled  it  up,  and  hastened  off  to  the  French /wo  J/s/e 
up  in  the  town. 

That  was  Wednesday ;  and  as  there  were  only  three 
working  days  between  him  and  his  bridal  morning,  Mr. 
Sweet  seemed  in  a  fair  way  to  have  his  hands  full.  There 
was  a  long  talk  to  be  had,  in  the  first  place,  with  that  dear 
boy,  Peter  Black,  who  swore  a  great  many  oaths  under 
his  unkempt  beard,  and  couldn't  be  made  to  see  reason 
until  Mr.  Sweet  had  smiled  a  great  deal,  and  referred 
several  times  to  Mr.  Jack  Wildman,  and  finally  ordered 
another  go  of  gin  and  water  for  his  future  parent-in-law, 
and  clapped  him  on  the  back,  and  slipped  two  guineas 
into  his  horny  palm.  Then  Mr.  Black  growled  out  his 
paternal  assent,  and  scowled  like  a  tipsy  tiger  on  his  new 
son,  who  only  laughed  good-naturedly,  and  patting  him 
on  the  back  again,  walked  away. 

Then  he  had  to  visit  Madame  Modeste,  the  fashionable 
dressmaker,  who  came  in  smiling  and  dipping,  with  whom 
he  held  another  consultation,  and  filled  out  a  blank  check, 
and  obtained  a  promise  that  everything  should  be  ready 
on  Saturday  night. 

There  were  a  thousand-and-one  other  little  things,  to  do, 
for  getting  married  is  a  very  fussy  piece  of  business  ;  but 
the  Cliftonlea  lawyer  was  equal  to  matrimony,  or  any 
other  emergency,  and  everything  bade  fair  to  come  off 
swimmingly. 

Lady  Agnes  Shirley  had  to  be  informed  the  next  day, 
for  he  wanted  leave  of  absence  for  two  or  three  days  to 
make  a  short  bridal  tour  to  London  and  back ;  and  Lady 
Agnes,  with  as  much  languid  amaze  as  any  lady  in  her 
position  could  be  expected  to  get  up,  gave  him  carte 
ulanche  to  stay  a  month,  if  he  pleased. 

Then  there  were  the  license  and  the  ring  to  procure, 
and  the  wedding-breakfast  to  order,  and  some  presents  of 
jewelry  to  make  to  his  bride,  and  new  furniture  so  get  for 
his  house,  and  the  short  week  went  ;  and  only  that  he 
was  so  impatient  to  make  sure  of  his  bride,  Mr.  Sweet 
could  have  wished  every  day  forty-eight  hours  long,  and 


1' 


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even  then  would  have  found  them  too  short  for  all  he  had 
to  do. 

But  if  the  bridegroom  was  busy  from  day-dawn  to  mid- 
night, the  bride  made  up  for  it  by  doing  nothing  whatever 
on  the  face  of  the  earth,  unless  sitting  listlessly  by  the 
window,  with  her  hands  folded,  could  be  called  doing 
something.  All  the  restlessness,  all  the  fire,  all  the  energy 
of  her  nature  seemed  to  have  gone  like  a  dream,  and  she 
sat  all  day  long  looking  out,  with  dull,  dread  eyes,  over 
the  misty  marshes  and  the  ceaseless  sea.  She  scarcely 
ate  ;  she  scarcely  slept  at  all ;  she  turned  her  listless  eyes, 
without  pleasure  or  interest,  on  the  pretty  dresses  and 
jewels,  the  flowers  and  fruit,  her  friends  daily  brought, 
and  then  turned  away  again,  as  if  they  had  merely  struck 
on  the  nerve  of  vision  without  conveying  the  slightest 
idea  to  her  mind.  Thursday,  Friday,  and  Saturday  she 
passed  in  a  dull  dream — the  lull  that  precedes  the  tempest. 
But  when  Sunday  came,  her  bridal  eve,  she  awoke  from 
her  lethargy  at  last. 

Sunday  had  always  been  the  pleasantest  day  in  Bar- 
bara's week.  She  liked  to  hear  the  musical  bells  chiming 
over  the  sunny  downs  ;  she  liked  to  go  up  into  the  grand 
old  cathedral,  with  its  old-fashioned  stained-glass  Windows 
and  sleepy  hollows  of  pews.  She  liked  to  wander  through 
the  quiet  streets  of  the  town,  hushed  in  Sabbath  stillness  ; 
and  in  the  purple  sunset  she  liked  to  lie  on  the  rocks,  lazy 
as  a  sybarite, and  listen  drowsily  to  the  murmuring  trees 
and  waves.  But  it  was  a  dull  Sunday,  this — a  dreary 
day,  with  the  watery  sky  of  lead — a  dismal  day,  with  a 
raw  sea  wind  and  fog — a  miserable  day,  with  the  drizzling 
rain  blotting  out  the  marshes  in  a  blank  of  wet  and  cold 
— a  suicidal  day,  with  a  ceaseless  drip,  drip,  drip. 

And  on  this  wretched  day  the  bride-elect  woke  from  her 
heavy  trance,  and  became  possessed  of  a  walking  demon. 
She  wandered  aimlessly  in  and  out  of  her  own  room, 
down  to  the  soaking  and  splashing  shore,  over  the  wet 
and  shiny  rocks,  along  the  dark  and  dreary  marshes,  and 
back  again  into  the  house,  with  her  clothes  wet,  and  cling- 
ing around  her,  and  still  unable  to  sit  down  anywhere. 

After  the  one-o'clock  dinner  she  retreated  again  to  her 
chamber,  heedless  of  Judith's  warnings  to  change  her 
clothes,  and  did  not  make  her  appearance  until  the  dark 
day  was  changed  into  a  darker  and  dismaler  evening. 


'!  :  I 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


201 


The  cottage  kitchen  looked,  if  possible,  more  cheerless  and 
disordered  than  ever.  The  green  wood  on  the  hearth 
sputtered,  and  hissed,  and  puffed  out  vicious  clouds  of 
smoke  ;  and  Judith  and  her  son  were  at  the  wooden  table 
partaking  of  a  repast  of  beef  and  brown  bread  when  her 
door  opened  and  Barbara  came  out  shawled  and  bonneted 
for  a  walk. 

She  paused  to  give  one  look  of  unutterable  disgust  at 
the  whole  scene,  and  then,  without  heeding  the  words  of 
either,  walked  out  into  the  dismal  evening.  Little  pools 
of  water  filled  the  road,  and  the  chill  wind  blew  the  rain 
in  her  face ;  but,  perfectly  indifferent  to  all  outward 
things,  she  went  on,  entered  the  park  gate,  and  took  her 
way  through  the  avenues,  under  heavy  and  dripping  trees, 
up  to  the  old  manor. 

Night  was  falling  when  she  reached  it — a  miserable 
night — enough  to  give  any  wayfarer  the  horrors  ;  but  long 
lines  of  light  streamed  from  the  rows  of  windows,  and 
showed  her  the  way  to  the  side-door,  where  she  stopped 
and  rang  the  servants'  bell. 

A  footman  opened  it,  and  a  flood  of  light  from  the  hall- 
lamp  fell  on  the  tall,  wet  figure  standing  pale  in  the  door- 
way. 

"Oh,  it's  you.  Miss  Black,  is  it.?  "said  the  man  who 
knew  Barbara  very  well.  "Come  in.  Wet  night — isn't 
it?" 

"La!  Barbara,  my  dear!"  cried  Mrs.  Wilder,  the 
housekeeper,  who  was  passing  through  the  hall  with  a 
trayful  of  bedroom  candlesticks.  "I  haven't  seen  you  for 
a  month,  I  think.  What  in  the  world  has  brought  you 
out  such  a  nasty  night  ?  " 

"I  have  come  to  see  Colonel  Shirley,"  said  Barbara, 
entering.      "  Is  he  at  home  ?  " 

She  had  scarcely  spoken  before  that  day,  and  her  voice 
seemed  strange  and  unnatural  even  to  herself.  Mrs.  Wil- 
der started  as  she  heard  it,  and  gave  a  little  scream  as  she 
took  another  look  at  Barbara's  face. 

"What  on  hearth!"  said  Mrs.  Wilder,  who,  when  flus- 
tered, had  a  free-and-easy  way  of  taking  up  and  dropping 
her  "h's"  at  pleasure.  "What  on  hearth  hails  you,  my 
dear  ?     You  look  like  a  ghost     don't  she,  Johnson  ?  " 

"Uncommon  like,  I  should  say  !  "  remarked  Mr.  John- 
son.    "  Been  sick,  Miss  Black  ?  " 


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WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


"I  want  to  see 
goodness,    Mrs. 


"No,"  said   Barbara,    impatiently. 
Colonel  Shirley.     Will  you    have    the 
Wilder,  to  tell  him    Barbara  Black  is  here,   and  wishes 
particularly  to  see  him  ? " 

"Oh,  yes,  I'll  tell  him  !  Come  along  upstairs,  I  was  just 
going  into  the  drawing-room  with  these  candlesticks,  any- 
way. 'Ere,  just  step  in  the  dining-room,  and  I'll  let  him 
know." 

Barbara  stepped  into  the  blaze  of  light  filling  the  spa- 
cious dining-room  from  a  huge  chandelier,  where  gods 
and  goddesses  played  hide  and  seek  in  a  forest  of  frosted 
silver ;  where  a  long  table  flashed  with  cut-glass,  and  por- 
celain, and  silver-plate,  and  bouquets  of  hot-house  exot- 
ics, in  splendid  vases  of  purple  spar  and  snowy  alabaster; 
where  a  carved  oaken  sideboard  was  loaded  with  wine 
and  dessert,  and  where  the  walls  were  brilliant  with  pic- 
tures of  the  chase  and  banqueting  scenes.  It  was  all  so 
dazzling,  that  Barbara  was  half  blinded  for  a  moment ; 
but  she  only  looked  quietly  round,  and  thought  of  the 
smoky  kitchen,  and  the  bare  deal  table,  with  the  brown 
bread  and  beef  at  home. 

She  could  hear  voices  in  the  blue  drawing-room  (which 
was  only  separated  from  the  one  she  was  in  by  a  curtained 
arch),  and  the  echo  of  laughter,  and  then  the  curtain  was 
lifted,  and  Colonel  Shirley  appeared,  his  whole  face  lighted 
with  an  eager  smile  of  welcome,  and  both  his  friendly 
hands  extended. 

"  My  good  little  Barbara  !  my  dear  little  Barbara  !  and 
you  have  come  to  see  us  at  last !  " 

She  let  him  take  both  her  hands  in  his  ;  but  as  he  clasped 
them,  the  glad  smile  faded  from  his  animated  face,  and 
gave  place  to  one  of  astonishment  and  concern.  For  the 
beautiful  face  was  so  haggard  and  worn,  so  wasted  and 
pale  ;  the  smooth  white  brow  furrowed  by  such  deep  lines 
of  suffering  ;  the  eyes  so  unnaturally,  so  feverishly  bright ; 
the  hands  so  wan  and  icily  cold,  that  he  might  well  look 
in  surprised  consternation. 

"  My  dear  little  Barbara  !  "  he  said  in  wonder  and  in 
sorrow  J  "what  is  the  meaning  of  all  this?  Have  vou 
been  ill?" 

"No,  sir." 

"  Your  very  voice  is  changed !  Barbara,  what  is  the 
matter?" 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


203 


"Nothing." 

"  Something,  I  think.  Sit  down  here  and  tell  me  w*^at 
it  is." 

He  drew  up  an  easy-chair  and  placed  her  in  it,  taking 
one  opposite,  and  looking  anxiously  into  the  wasted  and 
worn  face. 

''  Barbara  !  Barbara  !  something  is  wrong — very  much 
is  wrong  !  Will  you  not  tell  an  old  friend  what  has  changed 
you  like  this  ?  " 

' '  No, "  she  said,  looking  with  her  lustrous  eyes  straight 
into  his. 

He  sat  silent,  watching  her  with  grave,  pitying  tender- 
ness, then  : 

"Why  have  you  not  been  to  see  us  before,  Barbara  ? " 

"I  did  not  wish  to,"  said  Barbara,  whose  innate  upright- 
ness and  indomitable  pride  made  her  always  speak  the 
straightforward  truth. 

* '  Do  you  know  that  Vivia  sent  for  you  almost  every 
day } " 

"Yes." 

*  *  Why  did  you  not  come  ?  " 

"I  did  not  wish  to." 

"  Do  you  know  that  my  daughter  and  I  went  to  your 
cottage  the  day  after  our  return,  to  see  you  ? " 

"Yes." 

' '  We  did  not  see  you  ;  your  grandmother  said  you  were 
ill.       What  was  the  matter  ?  " 

"  I  was  not  ill,  but  I  could  not  see  you." 

More  perplexed  than  ever,  the  colonel  looked  at  her, 
wondering  what  mystery  was  behind  all  this  to  have 
changed  her  so. 

"  I  have  heard,  Barbara,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "  that 
you  are  going  to  be  married.     Is  it  true?  " 

"Itis.  " 

"And  to  Mr.  Sweet?" 

*'  To  Mr.  Sweet,"  she  said,  calmly ;  but  with  a  feverish 
fire  still  streaming  from  her  eyes. 

His  only  answer  was  to  take  her  hands  again  in  both 
his  own,  and  look  at  her  in  a  way  he  sometimes  looked 
at  his  own  daughter  of  late — half  sadly,  half  gayly,  half 
tenderly.  Barbara  was  looking  at  him,  too.  There  was 
something  so  grand  in  the  man's  face,  something  so  noble 
in  his  broad,  serene  brow ;   something  so  genial  in  his 


•  S 


204 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


U.V 


I  '.' 


liil 


blue  eyes,  shining  with  the  blended  fire  of  man  and  tender- 
ness of  woman;  something  so  sweet  and  strong  in  the 
handsome  smiling  mouth  ;  something  so  protecting  in  the 
clasp  of  the  firm  hand  ;  something  infinitely  good  and 
great  in  the  upright  bearing  of  figure,  and  kind  voice — that 
Barbara's  heart  broke  out  into  a  great  cry,  and  clinging  to 
the  strong  arm  as  if  it  were  her  last  hope,  she  dropped  down 
on  her  knees  at  his  feet,  and  covered  his  hand  with  pas- 
sionate kisses. 

"Oh,  my  friend!  my  friend!"  she  cried;  "you  who 
are  so  noble,  and  so  good,  who  have  been  kind  and 
tender  to  me  always,  and  whom  I  love  and  revere  more 
than  all  the  world  besides,  I  could  not  do  it  until  I  heard 
you  say  one  kind  word  to  me  again.  I  could  not  sell  my 
soul  to  perdition,  until  I  had  knelt  at  your  feet,  and  told  you 
how  much  I  thank  you,  how  much  I  love  you,  and  how  if 
I  dared,  I  would  pray  for  you  all  the  rest  of  my  life.  Oh, 
I  am  the  wickedest  and  basest  wretch  on  God's  earth  ;  but 
if  there  is  anything  in  this  world  that  could  have  redeemed 
me,  and  made  mo  what  I  once  was,  what  I  never  will  be 
again,  it  is  the  memory  of  you  and  your  goodness — you, 
for  whose  sake  I  could  die." 

She  sank  lower  down,  her  face  and  his  hands  all  blotted 
with  the  rain  of  tears  ;  and  quite  beside  himself  with  con- 
sternation, the  Indian  officer  strove  to  raise  her  up. 

"Barbara,  my  dear  child,  for  heaven's  sake,  rise  !  Tell 
me,  I  beg  of  you,  what  you  mean  !  " 

"  No,  no,  I  cannot !  I  dare  not  !  but  if  in  dme  to  come, 
the  miserable  time  to  come,  you  hear  me  spoken  of  as 
something  not  fit  to  name,  you  will  think  there  is  one  spot 
in  my  wretched  heart  free  from  guilt,  where  your  memory 
will  be  ever  cherished.  Try  and  think  of  me  at  my  best, 
no  matter  what  people  may  say." 

Before  he  could  speak,  the  door  opened,  and  Barbara 
leaped  to  her  feet  with  a  rebound.  A  fairy  figure,  in  a 
splendid  dinner  toilet,  with  jewels  flashing  on  the  neck 
and  arms,  and  a  circlet  of  gems  clasping  back  the  flowing 
curls,  came  in  with  a  delighted  cry  of  girlish  delight. 

"  Oh,  Barbara  !    Barbara  !  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you  !  " 

But  Barbara  recoiled,  and  held  out  both  arms  with  a 
gesture  of  such  unnatural  terror  and  repulsion,  that  the 
shining  figure  stopped  and  looked  at  her  in  speechless 
amaze :  and  then  before  either  she  or  her  father  could 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


205 


speak,  or  intercept  her,  Barbara  was  across  the  room,  out 
of  the  door,  through  the  hall,  down  the  stairs,  and  out 
into  the  wet  black  night  again. 

Mr.  Peter  Black  had  long  retired  to  his  bed  before  his 
daughter  came  home  ;  Judith  was  sitting  up  for  her,  very- 
cross  and  sleepy  in  her  corner  ;  and  Mr.  Sweet  was  there, 
too,  walking  up  and  down  the  room,  fsverishly  impatient 
and  anxious.  Barbara  came  in  soaking  wet,  and  without 
looking  or  speaking  to  either  of  them,  walked  straight  to 
her  room. 

The  bridegroom  sought  his  own  home,  with  an  anxious 
heart ;  and  the  happy  bride  sat  by  her  window  the  whole 
livelong  night. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


If 


ASRUfa  VOR    BREAD   AND  RECEIVING  A  STONE. 


It  is  not  *  very  pleasant  notion  for  any  lady  or  gentle- 
man to  take  it  into  their  heads  that  they  have  made  fools 
of  thenaselves,  yet  Mr.  Leicester  Cliffe,  albeit  not  given 
to  hoW  too  humble  an  opinion  of  himself,  had  just  arrived 
at  that  comfortable  conclusion,  as  the  cars  whirled  him 
back  from  London  to  Sussex.  Absence,  like  death,  shows 
persons  and  things  in  their  proper  light,  and  strips  the 
gilding  from  granite,  and  as  distance  removed  the 
glamour  from  his  eyes,  the  heir  of  Ciffewood  had  taken 
to  serious  reflection  and  come  to  a  few  very  correct  de- 
cisions. Imprimis,  that  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  Bar- 
bara the  first  time  that  he  had  ever  seen  her  ;  that  he  had 
loved  her  ever  since  ;  that  he  loved  her  now,  and  that  he 
was  likely  to  keep  on  doing  so  as  long  as  it  was  in  him 
to  love  anybody.  Second,  that  he  admired  and  respected 
his  pretty  cousin  excessively  ;  that  he  knew  she  was  a 
thousand  times  too  pure  for  such  a  sinner  as  he,  and  that 
he  had  never  for  one  instant  felt  a  stronger  sentiment  for 
her  than  admiration.  Third,  he  was  neither  more  nor  less 
than  an  unmitigated  coward  and  villain,  for  whom  hang- 
ing would  be  too  good. 

But  just  as  he  arrived  at  this  consoling  conclusion,  he 


i  1 


(tt; 


■  S 


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WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


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suddenly  bethought  himself  of  the  wise  old  saw.  **  It  is 
never  too  late  to  mend,"  and  Hope  once  more  planted 
her  shining  foot  on  the  threshold  of  his  heart.  What 
if,  now  that  his  eyes  were  opened — even  now,  at  the 
eleventh  hour — he  were  to  draw  back,  kneel  before  the 
lady  of  his  love,  and  be  forgiven  !  He  knew  she  would 
forgive  him ;  she  loved  him,  and  women  are  so  much 
like  spaniels  by  nature,  that  the  worse  they  are  used  the 
more  they  will  fawn  on  the  abuser.  Perhaps  she  even 
had  not  heard  it  yet,  and  he  could  easily  find  excuses  that 
would  satisfy  her  for  his  absence  and  silence.  It  was 
true  that  would  leave  him  in  a  nice  predicament  with 
Miss  Shirley — so  nice  a  one  that  it  was  like  jumping  out  of 
the  frying-pan  into  the  fire ;  but  then  Miss  Shirley  did 
not  care  a  straw  about  him  one  way  or  the  other ;  she 
married  him  as  a  matter  of  obedience,  just  as  she  would 
have  married  Mr.  Sweet,  the  lawyer,  if  papa  and  grand- 
mamma had  insisted  upon  it.  She  would  not  suffer  by 
his  leaving  her ;  there  wer<^  scores  of  better  men  ready  and 
willing  to  take  his  place,  and  her  name  would  not  be 
injured  by  it,  for  no  one  knew  of  their  engagement. 

Nv,t  that  Mr.  Leicester  dreamed  for  one  instant  of  being 
quixotic  enough  to  avow  his  sentimental  intention.  He 
shrank  in  horror  at  the  bare  idea  of  the  unheard-of  scene 
that  would  ensue,  and  which  would  probably  end  by  his 
being  shot  like  a  dog  by  that  fire-eating  Colonel  Cliffe  ; 
but  he  would  induce  Barbara  to  elope  with  him  ;  he 
would  mairy  her  probably  in  London  and  then  with  his 
bride  would  set  sail  for  America,  or  Australia,  or  some 
other  howling  wilderness,  and  live  happy  forever  after. 
And  having  settled  the  whole  matter  to  his  infinite  satis- 
faction, he  leaned  back  in  his  seat,  opened  the  Times,  and 
was  borne  swiftly  on,  not  to  Victoria's  but  to  Barbara's 
feet. 

And  while  the  grimy  engine  was  tearing  over  the  level 
track,  vomiting  clouds  of  black  smoke,  and  groaning 
with  the  commotion  in  its  interior,  the  said  Barbara,  all 
unconscious  of  her  good  fortune,  was  very  differently 
employed — in  nothing  less  than  in  dressing  for  her 
bridal ! 

A  splendid  morning  of  sunshine  and  summer  breezes 
had  followed  the  gloomy  night,  and  Mr.  Sweet  had  risen 
with  the  lark — nay,  fully  two  hours  before  that  early 


it  I 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


207 


bird  had  awakened  from  his  morning  nap,  and  had  busily 
proceeded  to  make  all  the  final  arrangements  for  his 
marriage.  Before  sitting  down  to  his  eight-o'clock  break- 
fast, of  which  he  found  he  could  not  swallow  a  morsel, 
for  matrimony  takes  away  the  appetite  as  effectually  as 
sea-sickness,  he  had  dispatched  the  meek  little  house- 
keeper down  to  Tower  Cliffe  with  sundry  bundles  and 
band-boxes,  wherein  the  bride  was  to  be  arrayed,  and  it 
was  with  a  troubled  spirit  Mr.  Sweet  had  seen  her  depart. 
'For  half  an  hour  he  paced  up  and  down  in  a  perfect 
agony  of  feverish  impatience,  and  still  the  burden  of  his 
thoughts  was — what  if,  after  all,  a*,  the  last  moment,  the 
willful,  wayward  Barbara  should  draw  back  ?  No  one 
could  ever  count  on  that  impulsive  and  neadstrong  young 
lady  more  than  two  minutes  at  a  time,  and  just  as  likely 
as  not,  when  he  arrived  at  the  cottage,  he  would  find  her 
locked  in  her  room  and  refusing  all  entreaties  to  come 
out ;  or  she  might  come  out  with  a  vengeance,  and  with 
two  or  three  sharp  sentences  knock  all  his  beautiful  plans 
remorselessly  on  the  head.  So  the  lawyer  paced  up  and 
down  with  a  more  anxious  heart  than  any  other  happy 
bridegroom  over  had  on  his  bridal  morning  ;  and  certainly 
none  ever  had  a  more  exasperating  bride.  And  in  the 
middle  of  a  dismal  train  of  reflections  about  finding  him- 
self dished,  the  clock  struck  nine,  a  cab  drove  up  to  the 
door,  and  he  jumped  in  and  was  driven  through  the  town 
and  down  to  Tower  Cliffe. 

Radiant  as  Mr.  Sweet  always  was,  he  had  never  been 
seen  so  intensely  radiant  as  on  this  particular  morning,  in 
a  brand-new  suit  of  lawyer-like  black,  a  brilliant  canary- 
colored  waistcoat,  ditto  stock,  and  ditto  gloves,  and  in 
his  button  hole  appeared  a  bouquet  of  the  yellowest  pos- 
sible primroses.  But  his  sallow  face  was  pale  with  excite- 
ment, and  his  eyes  gleamed  with  feverish  eagerness  as  he 
entered  the  cottage,  from  which  he  could  not  tell  whether 
or  not  he  was  to  bear  away  a  bride. 

But  he  might  have  spared  his  fears,  for  it  was  all  right. 
The  cottage  looked  neat  for  once,  for  the  little  house- 
keeper had  put  it  to  rights  ;  and  Mr.  Black  and  Judith 
were  arrayed  in  their  best,  and  neither  was  smoking  ;  and 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor  was  Barbara — the  bride.  Bar- 
bara was  not  looking  her  best,  as  brides  should  always 
make  it  a  point  of  conscience  to  do ;  for  her  face  and  lips 


I* 


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208 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


1      !? 


t  ^V     ^ 


r 


III 


were  a  great  deal  toocoloriess,  her  eyes,  surrounded  by 

dark  circles,  telling  of  sleepless  nights  and  woeful  days, 
looked  too  large,  and  hollow,  and  solemn  ;  but  stately 
and  majestic  she  must  always  look,  and  she  looked  it  now 
— looked  as  a  dethroned  and  imprisoned  queen  might  do 
at  her  jailers. 

She  was  to  be  married  in  her  traveling-dress,  as  they 
were  to  start  immediately  after  the  ceremony  for  London  ; 
and  Mr.  Sweet  countermanded  the  order  for  the  wedding- 
breakfast,  on  finding  there  would  be  nobody  but  himself 
to  eat  it.  The  dress  was  of  silver-gray  barege,  relieved 
with  knots  and  bows  of  mauve  ribbon,  a  pretty  mantle  of 
silk  and  lace,  and  a  straw  bonnet,  trimmed  also  with 
mauve  and  silver-gray.  The  toilet  was  simple,  but 
elegant ;  and  if  Barbara  did  not  look  one-half  so  brilliant 
and  beautiful  in  it  as  she  had  done  a  fortnight  before  in 
her  plain  crimson  merino,  it  was  her  fault,  and  not 
Madame  Modiste's. 

The  housekeeper  was  just  fastening  the  little  kid  glove, 
and  Barbara  lifted  her  eyes  from  the  floor,  on  which  they 
had  been  bent,  and  looked  at  Mr.  Sweet  out  of  their 
solemn,  dark  depths  as  he  entered. 

"Are  you. quite  ready  ?  "  he  nervously  asked. 

"  Quiet  ready,  sir,"  answered  the  housekeeper,  who 
was  to  accompany  them  to  church. 

"The  carriage  is  at  the  door.     Come,  Barbara." 

She  would  not  see  his  proffered  arm,  yet  she  followed 
him  quietly  and  without  a  word,  and  let  him  hand  her 
into  the  carriage.  The  little  housekeeper  came  next,  and 
then  Mr.  Black,  who  had  enjoyed  the  unusual  blessings  of 
shaving  and  hair-cutting,  stumbled  up  the  steps,  looking 
particularly  sulky  and  uncomfortable  in  his  new  clothes  ; 
and  then  Mr.  Sweet  jumped  in,  too,  and  gave  the  order  to 
drive  to  the  cathedral. 

It  was  a  weird  wedding  party,  without  bridemaids  or 
blessings,  or  flowers  or  frippery  ;  and  on  the  way  not 
one  word  was  spoken  by  any  of  the  party.  Barbara  sat 
like  a  cold,  white  statue,  her  hands  lying  listlessly  in  her 
lap,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor,  her  thoughts — where  ? 
Mr.  Sweet's  heart  was  beating  in  feverish  and  impatient 
throbs,  and  his  breath  came  quick,  and  on  his  sallow 
cheeks  were  two  burning  spots  ;  in  his  serene  eyes  shone 
a  strange  fire,  and  his  yellow-gloved  hands  trembled  so 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


209 


that  he  had  to  grasp  the  window  to  keep  them  from 
seeing  it.  The  little  housekeeper  looked  frightened 
and  awe-struck;  ard  Mr.  Black,  with  his  hands  stuck 
very  deep  in  his  coat-pockets,  was  scowling  desperately 
on  them  all  by  turns. 

Fifteen  minutes'  fast  driving  brought  the  grim  bridal 
party  to  the  cathedral,  where  a  curious  crowd  was  col- 
lected ;  some  came  to  attend  morning  service,  which  was 
then  going  on,  and  others  were  attracted  there  by  the 
rumors  of  the  marriage. 

The  lawyer  drew  his  bride's  arm  firmly  within  his  own, 
and  led  her  in,  while  the  two  others  followed,  while  more 
than  one  audible  comment  on  the  strange  looks  of  Barbara 
reached  his  ears  as  he  passed. 

The  cathedral  was  half  filled,  and  the  organ  poured 
forth  grand  swelling  notes  as  they  walked  up  the  aisle. 
Behind  the  rails,  in  stole  and  surplice,  and  book  in  hand, 
stood  one  of  the  curates  ;  bride  and  bridegi  .  ,m  placed 
themselves  before  him,  and  the  bridegroom  could  hear 
nothing,  not  even  the  music,  for  the  loud  beating  of  his 
heart.  All  the  spectators  held  their  breath,  and  leaned 
forward  to  look. 

"Who  gives  this  woman  to  be  married  to  this  man  ?" 
demanded  the  curate,  looking  curiously  at  the  strange 
bride.     And  Mr.  Black  stepped  forward  and  gave  her. 

"Wilt  thou  take  this  woman  to  be  thy  wedd'^**  wife?" 
demanded  the  curate  again. 

Mr.  Sweet  said,  "I  wih,"  in  a  voice  that  was  husky 
and  shook;  and  the  bride,  in  her  turn,  said,  "I  will," 
too,  clearly,  distinctly,  unfalteringly.     And  then  the  ring  * 
was  on  her  finger,  and  they  joined  hands,  and  the  curate 
pronounced  them  man  and  wife. 

The  organ  that  had  been  silent  for  a  moment,  as  if  it, 
too,  had  stopped  to  listen,  now  broke  out  into  an  exultant 
strain,  and  the  voices  of  the  choristers  made  the  domed 
roof  ring.  The  names  of  the  married  pair  were  inserted 
in  the  register,  and  Mr.  Sweet  took  his  wife's  arm — his 
wife's  this  time — to  lead  her  down  the  aisle.  The  dark 
eyes  were  looking  straight  before  her,  with  a  fixed,  fierce, 
yet  calm  intensity,  and  as  they  n eared  the  door  the  bride's 
gaze  fell  on  something  she  had  hardly  bargained  for. 

Leaning    against    a   pillar,    pale    and   haughty,  stood 
Leicester  Cliffe,  who  had  arrived  just  in  time  to  witness 
14 


If 


2IO 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


!!    ii4li 


Ihe  charming  sight,  and  whose  blue  eyes  met  those  of  the 
bride  with  a  powerful  look. 

The  happy  bridegroom  saw  him  at  the  same  instant, 
and  the  two  burning  spots  deepened  on  his  cheek  bones, 
and  the  fire  in  his  eyes  took  a  defiant  and  triumphant 
sparkle.  There  had  been  a  galvanic  start  on  the  part  of 
the  bride  ;  but  he  held  her  arm  tightly,  and  Mr.  Sweet, 
with  a  smile  on  his  lip,  bowed  low  to  him  as  he  passed, 
and  Barbara's  sweeping  skirts  brushed  him,  and  then 
they  were  gone,  shut  up  in  the  carriage,  and  driving 
away  rapidly  to  catch  the  next  London  train,  the  bride- 
groom happy  in  the  possession  of  the  bride  who  had 

WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


£f' 


■  i 


■>r 


Leicester  Cliffe  turned  slowly  from  the  cathedral, 
mounted  his  horse,  and  rode  to  Cliffewood.  There  he 
had  his  dusty  traveling-dress  to  change,  his  breakfast  to 
take,  and  a  great  deal  to  hear  from  Sir  Roland,  who  was 
full  of  news,  and  whose  first  question  was,  if  he  knew 
that  his  old  flame,  pretty  little  Barbara,  had  married  that 
oily  fellow.  Sweet.  Then,  as  in  duty  bound,  he  had  to 
ride  to  his  lady-love,  and  report  the  successful  accom- 
plishment of  all  his  trusts  and  charges,  and  spend  with  a 
gay  party  there  the  remainder  of  the  day. 

It  was  on  that  eventful  day  the  engagement  was 
publicly  and  formally  announced,  and  all  the  kissing  and 
congratulating  Vivia  had  dreaded  so  much  was  gone 
through  with,  to  her  great  discomposure  ;  and  she  was 
glad  when  evening  came,  to  leave  the  talking  crowd, 
and  wander  under  the  trees  alone  with  her  thoughts.  It 
was  a  lovely  night,  moonlit  and  starlit,  and  she  was 
leaning  against  a  tree,  looking  wistfully  up  at  the  far-off 
sky,  thinking  of  the  wedding  that  had  ♦aken  place  that 
day,  and  the  other  so  soon  to  follow,  when  the  sound  of 
a  horse  galloping  furiously  up  the  avenue  made  her  look 
around  and  behold  Tom  Shirley  dashing  along  like  a 
madman.  He  had  been  spending  the  day  at  Lisleham 
with  Lord  Henry  ;  and  Vivia,  as  she  watched  him  flying 
•along  so  fiercely,  began  to  think  the  wine  at  dinner  had 
been  a  little  too  strong. 

"  Why,  Tom  !  "  was  her  cry  ;  "  have  you  gone  crazy  ?  " 

Tom  had  not  seen  her,  but  at  the  sound  of  her  voice  he 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE.. 


SII 


checked  his  horse  so  sharply  and  suddenly,  that  the  steed 
reared,  and  pawed  the  air  animatedly  with  his  two  fore- 
ler:>. 

The  next  moment  his  rider  had  jumped  recklessly  to  the 
ground,  leaving  him  to  find  his  way  to  the  stables  himself, 
and  was  standing  beside  Vivia,  very  red  in  the  face,  and 
very  excited  in  the  eyes,  holding  both  her  hands  in  a  fierce 
clasp. 

"Vic!  Vic!  it's  not  true! — it  can't  be  true!  I  don't 
believe  a  word  of  it !  "  began  the  young  man,  with  the 
utmost  incoherence.  "Tell  me,  for  Heaven's  sake,  that 
it's  all  a  lie." 

"The  wine  was  certainly  dreadfully  strong,"  thought 
Vic,  looking  at  him  in  terror,  and  trying  to  free  her  hands. 
But  Tom  only  held  them  the  tighter,  and  broke  out 
again,  more  hotly,  and  wildly,  and  vehemently  than  be- 
fore : 

"  You  shall  not  go,  Vic  !  you  shall  not  leave  me  again 
until  you  have  heard  all.  Tell  me,  I  say,  that  it  is  not 
true." 

"What  is  not  true?  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  you're 
talking  about,  Cousin  Tom,"  said  Vivia,  looking  round 
her  in  distress. 

In  spite  of  his  momentary  craziness,  Tom  saw  her  pale 
face  and  terrified  eyes,  and  became  aware  that  he  was 
crushing  the  little  hands  as  if  they  were  in  thumb-screws, 
and  relaxed  his  bear-like  grip  contritely. 

**Iam  a  brute,"  said  Tom,  in  a  burst  of  penitence  hardly 
less  vehement  than  his  former  tone.  "Poor  little  hands. 
I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  them  ;  but  you  know,  Vic,  what  a 
fellow  I  am,  and  that  infernal  story  they  told  me  has  nearly 
driven  me  crazy.  I  am  a  savage,  I  know,  and  what 
must  you  think  of  me,  Vic  ?  " 

Vic  laughed,  but  yet  with  a  rather  pale  cheek. 

"  I  think  that  Lord  Lisle's  port  is  rather  strong,  and  you 
have  been  imbibing  more  than  is  good  for  you.  Cousin 
Tom." 

"  Oh,  she  thinks  I  am  drunk !  "  said  Tom,  with  another 
burst,  this  time  of  indignation  ;  "  but  allow  me  to  tell 
you.  Miss  Shirley,  I  haven't  din»d  at  all.  Port  indeed  I 
Faith,  it  is  more  than  wine  that  has  got  into  my  head 
to-night." 

There  was  a  cadence  so  bitter  in  his  tone    that  Vic 


\i 


'k 


I 


r 


212 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


ill    Ij 


II- 


L.  n 


opened  her  pretty  blue  eyes  very  wide,  and  looked  at  him 
in  astonisnment.  Cousin  Vic  was  very  fond  of  Cousin 
Tom,  and  she  never  felt  inclined  to  run  away  from  him, 
as  she  invariably  did  from  Cousin  Leicester. 

"Something  has  gone  wrong,  Cousin  Tom,  and  you 
are  excited.     Come,   sit  down  here,    and  tell  me  what  it 

IS. 

There  was  a  rustic  bench  under  the  waving  chestnuts. 
Vic  sat  down,  spread  out  her  ample  skirts,  and  made  room 
for  him  beside  her  ;  but  Tom  would  not  be  tempted  to  sit 
down  at  any  price,  and  burst  out  again  : 

"  It  is  just  this,  Vic.  They  told  me  you  were  going  to 
be  married." 

The  bright  eyes  dropped,  and  the  pale  cheeks  took  the 
tint  of  the  reddest  rose  ever  seen, 

"  I  know  it  is  not  true.     It  can't  be  true." 

She  did  not  answer. 

"Speak!"  exclaimed  Tom,  almost  fiercely;  "speak 
and  tell  me  it  is  not  true." 

"  I  cannot ! '"  very  faintly. 

"  Heavens  !  "  he  said,  "  you  can  never  mean  to  say  it 
is  true !  " 

She  arose  suddenly,  and  looked  at  him,  a  cold  terror 
chilling  her  heart 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  she  asked. 

"Vic,  is  it  true?" 

"It  is." 

"You  are  going  to  be  married  to  Leicester  Cliffe?  " 

"I  am!" 

The  rosy  light  had  left  her  cheeks,  for  there  was  som*^- 
thing  in  his  face  that  no  one  had  ever  seen  in  Tom  Shir- 
ley's face  before. 

"  Do  you  love  him  ?  " 

"Tom,  what  are  you  thinking  of,  to  ask  such  a  ques- 
tion ? " 

"Answer  it,"  he  said,  savagely. 

"  I  will  love  him  I ''  said  Vivia,  firmly. 

And  Tom  broke  out  into  a  bitter,  jeering  laugh. 

"  Which  means  that  you  will  marry  him  now  because 
he  is  an  excellent  parli,  and  papa,  and  grandmamma, 
and  Uncle  Roland  wish  it,  and  trust  .o  the  love  to  come 
afterward.  Vic  Shirley,  you  are  a  miserable,  Aeartlesa 
coquette,  and  I  despise  you." 


I'll 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


213 


She  was  leaning  against  a  tree,  clinging  to  it  for  support 
her  whole  face  perfectly  colorless,  but  the  blue  eyes 
quailed  not  beneath  his  own. 

'*  You  !  "  he  went  on,  in  passionate  scorn,  and  with 
flaming  eyes,  "you,  the  spotless,  immaculate  Victoria 
Shirley  !  You  who  set  up  for  an  angel,  and  made  com- 
mon mortals  feel  unworthy  to  touch  the  hem  of  your  gar- 
ment. You  the  angel  on  earth  !  a  wretched,  cold-blooded, 
perjured  girl!  Oh,  Lucifer!  star  of  the  morning,  how 
thou  art  fallen  !  " 

"Tom,  what  have  I  ever  done  to  you  to  make  you  talk 
like  this  ?  " 

"Oh,  nothing  !  only  sold  yourself,  body  and  soul  !  A 
mere  trifle,  .iot  worth  speaking  of" 

She  gave  him  a  look  full  of  sorrow  and  reproach,  and 
turned  with  quiet  dignity  to  go  away. 

"Stay  !  "  he  half  shouted,  "  and  tell  me  for  what  end 
you  have  been  fooling  me  all  these  months." 

"I  do  not  understand." 

"  Poor  child  !  Its  little  head  never  was  made  to  un- 
tangle such  knotted  problems.  Will  you  understand  if  I 
ask  you  why  you  have  led  me  on,  like  a  blind  fool,  to 
love  you  ? " 

"Tom!" 

"You  never  thought  of  it  before,  of  course;  but  you 
have  done  it,  and  I  love  you.  And  now,  before  you 
Stir  a  step,  you  shall  tell  me  whether  or  not  it  is  re- 
turned." 

'  *  I  do  love  you,  Tom — I  always  have — as  dearly  as  if 
you  were  my  brother." 

"  I'm  exceedingly  obliged  to  you  ;  but,  as  it  happens, 
I  don't  want  your  sisterly  love,  and  I  shall  take  the  first 
opportunity  of  sending  a  bullet  through  Mr.  Leicester 
Cliffe's  head.  I  have  the  honor,  Miss  Shirley,  to  bid  you 
good-night." 

"Tom,  stay  !     Tom,  for  Heaven's  sake " 

And  here  the  voice  broke  down  ;  and  covering  her  face 
with  both  hands,  she  burst  into  a  hysterical  passion  of 
weeping. 

Tom  turned,  and  the  great,  grieved  giant  heart,  so  fiery 
in  fts  wrath,  melted  like  a  boy's  at  sight  of  her  tears.  He 
could  have  cried  himself,  but  for  shame,  as  he  flung  him- 
self down  on  the  bench  with  a  sobbing  groan. 


i\'- 


"t: 


Ml 


U 


ai4 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


'r 


I     ! 


■     i^ 


"Oh,  Vic  I  how  could  you  do  itl  How  could  you 
treat  me  so  ? " 

She  came  over,  and  kneeling  beside  him,  put  one  arm 
round  his  neck,  as  if,  indeed,  he  had  been  the  dear  brother 
she  thought  him. 

"  Oh,  Tom,  I  never  meant  it — I  never  meant  it !  " 

"And  you  will  marry  Lei«ester  ?  " 

"You  know  I  must,  Tom;  but  you  will  be  my  dear 
brother  always." 

He  turned  away  and  dropped  his  head  on  his  arm. 

"You  know  it  is  my  duty,  Tom.  And,  oh,  you  must 
not  think  such  dreadful  things  of  me  any  more.  If  you 
do,  I  shall  die." 

"  Go  !  "  he  said,  lifting  his  head  a  moment,  and  then 
dropping  it  again.  Go  and  leave  me.  I  know,  Vic, 
you  are  an  angel,  and  I — I  am  nothing  but  a  miserable 
fool." 

And  with  these  words  the  boy's  heart  went  out  from 
Tom  Shirley,  and  never  came  back  any  more. 


CHAPTER  XXni. 


I  4 


il      ;,1 


:i:   !'l 


H\'    ■  'i 


^:  '    !: 


m 


VICTORIA  S  BRIDAL  EVE. 

In  the  bluest  of  summer  skies,  heralded  by  the  rosiest 
banners  of  cloud,  rose  up  the  sun  on  Victoria  Shirley's 
wedding-day. 

The  rose-gardens  around  Castle  Cliffe  were  in  full 
bloom,  the  bees  and  butterflies  held  grand  carnivals  there 
all  the  long  sultry  days,  and  the  air  was  heavy  with  their 
burden  of  perfume.  The  chestnuts,  the  oaks,  the  poplars, 
the  beeches,  were  out  in  their  greenest  garments  ;  the 
swans  floated  about  serenely  in  their  lakes ;  the  Swiss 
farm-house  was  radiant  in  the  glory  of  new  paint ;  and 
the  Italian  cottage  was  lost  in  a  wilderness  of  scented 
creepers.  The  peacocks  and  gazelles,  the  deer  and  the 
dogs,  had  fine  times  in  the  June  sunshine  ;  and,  over  all, 
the  banner  floated  out  from  the  flag-tower,  and  everybody 
knew  that  it  was  the  bridal-day  of  the  heiress  of  Castle 
Cliffe. 


)uld  you 

one  arm 
IT  brother 

it!" 

my  dear 

arm. 

you  must 
.     If  you 

and  then 
lovv,  Vic, 
miserable 

out  from 


he  rosiest 
Shirley's 

I    in    full 
vals  there 
with  their 
poplars, 
nts  ;    the 
he  Swiss 
lint ;  and 
f  scented 
and  the 
over  all, 
verybody 
of  Castle 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


215 


And  within  the  mansion  wonderful  were  the  prepara- 
tions. At  nine  in  the  evening-  the  ceremony  was  to  take 
place,  and  Lady  Agnes  had  resolved  and  announced  that 
a  grand  ball  should  follow  ;  and  at  twelve  the  next  day 
they  were  to  step  into  the  cars  and  bid  good-bye  to  Clif- 
tonlea  for  two  long  years. 

A  whole  regiment  of  Gunter's  men  had  come  down 
from  London  to  attend  to  the  supper,  which  was  to  be 
the  i^reatest  miracle  of  cookery  of  modern  times  ;  and 
another  regiment  of  young  persons  in  the  dressmaking 
department  filled  the  dressing-rooms  upstairs.  Invita- 
tions had  been  sent  to  half  the  county,  besides  to  ever  so 
many  in  London — so  many,  in  fact,  that  the  railway 
trains  had  their  first-class  coupes  crowded  all  day,  and 
their  proprietors  realized  a  small  fortune.  The  grounds 
were  all  to  be  illuminated  with  colored  lamps,  hung  ir 
all  sorts  of  fanciful  devices.  And  there  was  to  be  such  a 
feast  there  for  the  tenantry,  with  music  and  dancing  after- 
ward, and  such  a  display  of  fireworks,  and  such  a  lot  of 
bonfires, and  such  ringing  of  bells  and  beating  of  drums, 
and  shouting  and  cheering,  and  general  joy,  as  had  never 
been  seen  or  heard  of  before.  Lady  Agnes  declared  her- 
self distracted  and  nearly  at  death's  door,  although  Mr. 
Sweet,  who  had  come  back  from  his  short  wedding-tour, 
helped  her  as  much  as  he  could,  and  proved  himself  per- 
fectly invaluable.  And  in  the  midst  of  it  all,  the  bride- 
groom spent  his  time  in  riding  over  the  sunny  Sussex 
downs,  lounging  lazily  through  the  rooms  of  Cliftonlea, 
and  smoking  unheard-of  quantities  of  cigars.  And  the 
bride,  shut  up  with  Lady  Agnes  and  the  dressmakers,  in 
the  room  of  the  former,  was  hardly  ever  seen  by  anybody 
— least  of  all  by  the  intended  husband. 

The  wedding-day  came,  and  all  the  snowy  gear  in 
which  she  was  to  be  tricked  out  lay  on  the  bed  in  the 
Rose  Room — gloves,  and  slippers,  and  veil,  and  wreath, 
and  dress  ;  and  the  inlaid  tables  were  strewn  with  mag- 
nificent presents,  every  one  of  them  a  small  fortune  in 
itself,  to  be  publicly  displayed  that  evening.  And  Vivia, 
who  had  been  shut  up  all  day  with  the  seamstresses,  a 
good  two  hours  before  it  was  time  to  dress,  had  broken 
from  her  captors  and  turned  to  leave  the  room. 

"Where  are  you  going,   child?"  asked    Lady  Agnes. 
"There  is  the  dressing-bell  ringing." 


<>1 


1.^ 


I 


2X6 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


A    (' 


,! 


l!  i  ■        '  ■ 


house — to   say 
be  no  time  to- 


"I  don't  care  for  the  dressing-bell.  I'm  not  going 
down  to  dinner." 

"Where  are  you  going,  then  ?" 

"  Through  the  house — the  dear  old 
good-bye  to  it  before  I  go.  There  will 
morrow,  I  suppose." 

"I  should  think  not,  indeed,  since  we  start  at  noon. 
I  suppose  you  expect  the  house  will  say  good-bye  to  you 
in  return  ?  " 

"I  shall  think  it  does,  at  all  events.  I  wish  we  were 
not  going  away  at  all." 

"Of  course  you  do.  I  never  knew  you  wishing  for 
anything  but  what  was  absurd  !  You  must  have  dinner 
in  your  own  room  and  remember  you  are  not  to  be  too 
late  to  dress  for  your  wedding.  It  would  be  just  like  you 
to  keep  the  bridal  party  waiting  !  " 

Lady  Agnes  sailed  past  majestically  to  make  her  own 
toilet,  and  Vivia,  with  a  fluttering  little  heart,  yet  happy 
while  she  trembled,  went  from  room  to  room  to  take  a 
last  look.  She  had  nearly  finished  the  circuit,  even  to 
the  dreadful  Queen's  Room,  and  was  standing  in  the 
picture-gallery,  looking  wistfully  at  the  haunted  faces  of 
all  her  dead  ancestors,  when  some  one  came  wearily  up 
the  stairs,  and  turning,  she  saw  Margaret  Shirley. 

If  others  had  been  changing  within  the  last  few-  weeks, 
so  had  Margaret ;  always  pale  and  thin,  she  moved  about 
like  a  colorless  ghost  now  ;  her  black  eyes  the  only  beauty 
she  had  ever  possessed,  sunken  and  hollow  ;  and  the 
deep  lines  about  the  mouth  and  forehead  told  their  own 
etory  of  silent  suffering.  She  shunned  everybody,  and 
most  of  all,  her  bright  and  beautiful  Cousin  Victoria,  and, 
seeing  her  now,  standing  radiant  in  the  amber  haze  of  the 
sunset,  she  stopped,  and  made  a  motion  as  if  to  retreat. 
But  the  clear,  sweet  voice  called  her  back  : 

"Don't  go,  Margaret ;  I  want  you.     Come  here." 

Margaret  came  to  the  head  of  the  stairs  and  there 
stopped. 

"I  have  been  wanting  to  see  you  all  the  week,  but  I 
could  not  get  near  you.  Why  do  you  keep  away  from 
me.?" 

"  I  do  not  keep  away." 

"You  know  you  do !  Why  are  you  not  cordial  as  you 
used  to  be  ? " 


■   I 


i   \ 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


217 


•'  I  am  cordial !  "  still  hovering  aloof. 

"Come  nearer,  then." 

Again  Margaret  moved  a  step  or  two,  and  again 
stopped. 

"We  ought  to  be  frends,  Margaret,  since  we  are 
cousins  !     But  we  have  not  been  friends  this  long  time." 

No  answer.  Margaret's  eyes  were  on  the  floor,  and  her 
face  looked  petrified. 

"You  are  to  be  one  of  my  bridemaids,  and  my  travel- 
ing companion  for  the  next  two  years  ;  and  all  that  proves 
that  we  ought  to  be  friends." 

"You  mistake.  Cousin  Victoria  ;  I  am  not  going  to  be 
your  traveling  companion." 

"No  ?     Grandmamma  said  so." 

"  Probably  she  thinks  so." 

"You  are  jesting,  Margaret  ? " 

"No." 

"Where  are  you  going?    What  do  you  intend  to  do?" 

"Excuse  me  ;  you  will  learn  that  at  the  proper  time." 

Vivia  looked  at  her  earnestly.  An  intelligent  light  w^as 
in  her  eye,  and  a  scarlet  effusion  rose  hot  to  her  face,  and 
rapidly  faded. 

"You  are  unhappy?  " 

"Am  I?" 

"  Yes  ;  and  I  know  the  reason." 

The  black  eyes  were  raised  from  the  floor  and  fixed 
quietly  on  her  face. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  what  it  is  ?  " 

"  As  you  like." 

Vivia  leaned  forward,  and  would  have  laid  her  hand  on 
the  other's  shoulder,  but  Margaret  recoiled,  with  a  look 
on  her  face  that  reminded  her  cousin  of  Barbara.  She 
drew  back  proudly  and  a  little  coldly. 

"You  have  no  right  to  be  angry  with  me,  Cousin  Mar- 
garet !  Whatever  I  have  done  has  been  in  obedience  to 
grandmamma's  commands.  If  by  it  you  are  unhappy,  it 
is  no  fault  of  mine  !  " 

The  black  eyes  were  still  looking  at  her  quietly,  and 
over  the  dark,  grave  face  there  dawned  a  smile  sad  ind 
scornful,  that  said  as  plainly  as  words,  "She  talks,  and 
knows  not  what  she  is  talking  about  !  "  but  before  she 
could  speak,  Mademoiselle  Jeannette  came  tripping  up 
stairs. 


■e:\ 


r  s 


I!  !i 


I 


\.\<. 


i:h'      ^   ;i 


:i       if 


"I'M         HPI'I 


,!!l  h 


'h 


I  I 


^1 


'ill  I'! 


2l8 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


"Mademoiselle  Genevieve.  I  have  been  searching  for 
you  all  over.  My  lady  says  you  are  to  go  directly  and 
take  your  dinner. " 

Margaret  had  vanished  like  a  spirit  at  the  appearance 
of  the  maid  ;  so  Mademoiselle  Genevieve,  with  a  little 
sigh,  followed  her  cousin  to  her  boudoir,  where  the  slen- 
der meal  was  placed.  There  was  a  little  Sevres  cup  of 
coffee ;  a  petite  glass  of  sparkling  champagne,  palk  a  la 
crime,  and  an  omelette ;  and  Vivia  ate  the  pate,  and 
tasted  the  omelette,  and  drank  the  coffee  and  wine  with 
a  very  good  appetite ;  and  had  only  just  finished  when 
lady  Agnes  came  in  and  announced  that  it  was  time 
to  dress.  After  her,  came  half  a  dozen  bride  maids, 
Cousin  Margaret  among  the  rest,  and  they  were  all  mar- 
shaled into  Lady  Agnes'  dressing-room  and  handed  over 
to  a  certain  French  artist,  who  had  come  all  the  way  from 
London  to  dress  their  hair. 

Vivia's  beautiful  tresses  required  least  time  of  all,  for 
they  were  to  be  simply  worn  in  flowing  curls,  according 
to  her  jaunty  custom  ;  but  most  of  the  other  damsels  had 
to  be  braided,  and  banded,  and  scented,  and  "done  up" 
in  the  latest  style.  This  important  piece  of  business  took 
a  long  time,  and  when  it  was  over,  monsieur  withdrew. 
TYi^femmes  de  chambre  flocked  in  ;  and  Vivia,  under  the 
hands  of  Jeannette  and  Hortense,  went  to  her  own  room 
to  be  dressed.  Lady  Agnes  followed,  looking  as  if  she 
had  something  on  her  mind. 

"There  is  no  time  to  lose!"  she  said  to  the  maids. 
"You  will  have  to  make  your  young  lady's  toilet  as  fast 
as  you  can  ;  and  Victoria,  child,  don't  look  so  pale.  A 
little  paleness  is  eminently  proper  in  a  bride  ;  but  I  want 
you  to  look  ever  so  pretty  to-night !  " 

"  I  shall  try  to,  grandmamma  !  What  are  all  the  peo- 
ple about  downstairs  ?  " 

' '  They  are  all  dressing,  of  course  !  and  it  is  time  I  was 
following  their  example,"  glancing  at  her  watch. 

"Grandmamma,"  said  Vivia,  struck  with  a  little  cloud 
on  that  lady's  serene  brow,  "you  have  been  annoyed. 
What  is  it !  " 

"It  is  nothing— that  is  nothing  but  a  trifle;  and  all 
about  that  absurd  boy,  Tom. " 

Vivia  started  suddenly,  and  caught  her  breath.  Since 
the  night  under  the  chestnuts  she  had  not  seen  Tom— no 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


219 


one  had  ;  and  it  was  a  daily  subject  of  wonder  and  in- 
quiry. 

"  Grandmamma,  has  anything  happened  to  him  ?  " 

•'Nothing  that  I  am  aware  of — certainly  nothing  to 
make  you  wear  such  a  frightened  face.  But  what  will 
you  think  when  I  tell  you  he  is  in  Cliftonlea,  and  never 
comes  here  ?  It  is  the  most  annoying  and  absurd  thing 
I  ever  heard  of,  and  everybody  talks  about  it." 

"  How  do  you  know  he  is  in  Cliftonlea.? " 

' '  Your  papa  saw  him  last  night.  He,  and  Captain 
Douglas,  and  some  more  of  the  gentlemen  had  been  out 
at  the  meet  of  the  Duke  of  Bedford's  hounds  ;  and  riding 
home  about  dark,  they  saw  him  down  there  near  the  beach 
woods.  They  called  to  him,  but  he  disappeared  among 
the  trees,  and  the  people  here  have  done  nothing  but  talk 
of  it  all  day  long.  Rogers,  the  gamekeeper,  says  he  has 
seen  him  haunting  the  place  in  the  strangest  manner  for 
the  last  few  days,  as  if  he  was  afraid  to  be  seen." 

Her  paleness  deepened  as  Vivia  listened,  and  her  heart 
seemed  to  stand  still. 

"It  is  the  most  unaccountable  thing  I  ever  heard  of; 
and  I  never  saw  your  papa  so  vexed  about  a  trifle  as  he 
is  about  this.     I  cannot  understand  it  at  all." 

But  her  granddaughter  could  ;  and  she  averted  her  face, 
that  grandmamma's  sharp  eyes  might  not  read  the  tale  it 
told.  The  eagle  eyes  saw,  however,  and  her  arm  was 
suddenly  grasped. 

"Victoria,  you  can  read  the  riddle.  I  see  it  in  your 
eyes.     When  did  you  meet  Tom  last }  " 

No  answer. 

"  Speak  !"  said  the  lady,  low,  but  imperiously. 
"When  was  it.?" 

"Last  Monday  night." 

"Where?" 

"  Out  under  the  chestnuts." 

"What  did  he  say  to  you .? " 

"Grandmamma,  don't  ask  me  !  " 

And  the  pale  cheek  turned  scarlet. 

Lady  Agnes  looked  at  her  a  moment  with  her  cold  and 
piercing  eyes,  and  then  dropped  her  arm. 

"  I  see  it  all,  "she  said,  a  haughty  flush  dyeing  her  cwn 
delicate  cheek.  "  He  has  been  making  a  fool  of  himself, 
and  has  got  what  he  deserved.     He  is  wise  to  stay  awjy ; 


•  t  !J  i: 


I* 


'.    '  i: 


f! 


:,      .  , 


220 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


ril 


'■■■  ",l 


if  he  comes  within  reach  of  me,  he  will  probably  hear 
something^  more  to  the  point  than  he  heard  under  the 
chestnuts.     When  I  am  dressed,  I  will  come  back." 

The  thin  lips  were  compressed.  The  proud  eyes  flash- 
ing blue  flame  as  Lady  Agnes  swept  out  of  the  Rose 
Room.  If  looks  were  lightning,  and  Tom  Shirley  near 
enough,  he  would  certainly  never  make  love  to  any  one 
else  on  earth. 

But  Vivia's  face  had  changed  sadly,  and  she  stood  un- 
der the  hands  of  the  two  maids  all  unconscious  of  their 
doings  and  their  presence,  and  thinking  only  of  him. 
She  thought  o^  a  thousand  other  things,  too — things  almost 
forgotten.  Her  whole  life  seemed  to  pass  like  a  pano- 
rama before  her.  She  thought  dimly  as  we  think  of  a 
confused  dream,  of  a  poor  home,  and  a  little  playmate 
that  had  been  hers  long,  long  ago  ;  then  of  the  quiet  con- 
tent in  her  dear  France,  where  year  after  year  passed  so 
serenely  ;  of  the  pleasant  chateau,  where  her  holidays 
were  spent;  of  Claude  who  had  been  almost  as  dear  to 
her  as  Tom,  and  whose  life  she  had  embittered  like  his  ; 
of  her  first  visit  to  England  and  to  this  beloved  home, 
where  she  had  met  this  stately  grandmamma  and  idolized 
father ;  and  then,  more  vividly  than  all  the  rest,  came 
back  the  first  meeting  with  Barbara  Black.  Again  she 
was  kneeling  in  the  Demon's  Tower,  with  Margaret  couch- 
ing in  a  corner,  her  black  eyes  shining  like  stars  in  its 
gloom — Tom  at  her  feet,  bleeding  and  helpless  ;  the  rag- 
ing sea  upon  them  in  its  might  ;  the  black  night  sky  ;  the 
wailing  wind  and  lashing  rain,  and  a  little  figure  in  a  frail 
skiff  flying  over  the  billows  to  save  them. 

They  had  been  so  good  to  her,  and  had  loved  her  so 
well — Barbara  and  Margaret  ;  but,  somehow,  she  had 
alienated  them  all,  and  they  loved  her  no  longer.      What 


was  it  that  was  wanting  in  her  ? 


what  was  this  string  out 


|i  !!■ 


of  tune  that  had  made  the  discord.?  Was  she  only  a 
sounding  brass  and  tinkling  cymbal,  ..nd  was  the  real 
germ  of  good  wanting  in  her  after  all  ?  Vivia's  blue  eyes 
were  full  of  tears,  but  she  could  not  find  the  jarring 
chords  ;  and  now  all  that  was  past,  and  a  new  day  was 
dawning  for  her.  Her  whole  life  was  changed  ;  but  the 
dark  veil  of  Futurity  was  down,  and  it  was  well  for  her 
she  could  not  see  what  was  beyond  it. 
And  while  Vivia  sighed  and  mused,  the  handmaidens 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


221 


were  going"  on  with  their  work,  and  the  moments  were  fly- 
ing fast.  The  wreath  and  veil  were  on;  the  (Maniond  neck- 
lace and  bracelets  clasped  ;  the  last  ribbon  and  fold  of 
lace  arranged,  and  the  door  was  opened,  and  Lady  Agnes, 
in  velvet  and  jewels,  looking  still  youthful  and  unmis- 
takably fair,  re-appeared.  At  her  coming,  Vivia  awoke 
from  her  dream.  She  had  something  to  do  besides  dream, 
now. 

"  Ah  I  you  have  finished  !  "  was  my  lady's  cry.  "  Turn 
round,  Victoria,  and  let  me  see  you." 

Victoria,  who  had  not  once  seen  herself,  turned  round 
with  a  bright  face. 

"Will  I  do,  grandmamma?" 

"You  look  charming,  superb,  lovely!"  said  Lady 
Agnes,  in  a  sort  of  rapture.  "  My  child,  you  never  looked 
so  beautiful  before  in  your  life." 

Hearing  this,  Vivia  turned  to  look  for  herself,  and  a 
radiant  glow  came  to  her  face  at  the  sight.  Lovely  she 
must  have  looked  in  anything.  Dazzling  she  appeared  in 
her  bridal  dress.  The  dress  itself  was  superb.  It  had 
been  imported  from  Paris,  and  had  cost  a  fortune.  It 
was  of  rich  white  velvet,  the  heavy  skirts  looped  with 
clusters  of  creamy  white  roses,  the  corsage  and  sleeves 
embroidered  with  seed-pearls,  and  a  bouquet  of  jessamine 
flowers  on  the  breast.  The  arching  throat,  the  large  and 
exquisitely  molded  arms  were  clasped  with  diamonds  that 
streamed  like  rivers  of  light ;  the  sunny  curls  showered  to 
the  small  waist  crowned  with  a  wreath  of  jeweled  orange- 
blossoms  sparkling  with  diamond  dew-drops  ;  and  over 
all,  and  sweeping  the  carpet,  a  bridal  vail,  encircling  the 
shining  figure  like  a  cloud  of  mist.  But  the  lovely  head, 
the  perfect  face  drooping  in  its  exquisite  modesty,  and 
blushing  and  smiling  at  its  own  beauty,  neither  lace,  nor 
velvets,  nor  jewels  were  aught  compared  to  that. 

"  IMy  darling  !  "  cried  Lady  Agnes,  in  an  ecstasy  very, 
very  uncommon  with  her,  "you  look  like  an  angel  to- 
night !  " 

"  Dear,  dear  grandmamma,  I  care  for  nothing  if  I  only 
please  you.     Are  the  rest  all  ready  ?  " 

"I  have  not  been  to  see,  but  lam  going.  Do  you 
know,"  lowering  her  voice,  "a  most  singular  thing  has 
occurred. " 

"What?" 


ii 


If 
5i 


illi 


n 


>l    I      |i;!; 


,1.1 1 


323 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


h  m\ 


"It  is  onlv  half  an  hour  to  the  time  appointed  for  the 
ceremony,  the  drawing-room  is  filled,  everybody  is  there 
but  the  one  that  should  be  there  most  of  all." 

"Who's  that?" 

"There's  a  question  !     Leicester  Cliffe,  of  course. " 

"  Has  he  not  come,  then  ?  " 

"No,  indeed;  and  when  he  does  come,  he  shall  be 
taken  most  severely  to  task  for  this  delay.  The  man 
who  would  keep  such  a  bride  waiting,  deserves,  deserves 
— the  bastinado  !  No,  that  would  be  too  good  for  him  ; 
deserves  to  lose  her." 

Vivia  laughed. 

"Oh,  grandmamma,  that  would  be  too  bad.  Has 
Uncle  Roland  come?" 

"  Uncle  Roland  has  been  here  fully  an  hour,  and  knows 
nothing  about  the  matter.  It  appears  the  young  gentle- 
man has  been  out  riding  all  day,  and  never  made  his  ap- 
pearance until  dinner,  when  he  drank  more  wine  than  is 
usual  or  prudent  with  bridegrooms,  and  behaved  himself 
in  a  manner  that  was  very  strange  altogether." 

"What  did  he  do?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know;  he  was  queer  and  excited.  Sir 
Roland  says  •  but  he  thought  little  of  that,  considering 
the  circumstances.  He  has  seen  nothing  of  him  since, 
and  came  here  in  the  full  expectation  of  seeing  him  here 
before  him." 

"Well,  grandmamma,  he  will  be  here  before  the  end 
of  the  half-hour,  I  suppose,  and  that  will  do,  won't  it  ?  " 

"It  will  do  for  the  wedding,  but  it  won't  save  him  from 
a  severe  lecture  from  me — a  sort  of  foretaste  of  what  he 
may  expect  of  you  in  the  future.  Everything  seems  to 
be  going  wrong,  and  I  feel  as  if  it  would  be  the  greatest 
relief  to  box  somebody's  ears." 

Lady  Agnes  looked  it,  and  Vivia  laughed  again. 

"You  might  box  mine,  grandmamma,  and  relieve  your 
feelings,  only  it  would  spoil  my  vail,  and  Jeannette  would 
never  forgive  you  for  that." 

But  Lady  Agnes  was  knitting  her  brows,  and  not  pay- 
ing the  least  attention  to  her. 

"To  think  he  should  be  late  on  such  an  occasion  !  it  is 
unheard  of — it  is  outrageous  !  " 

"Oh,  grandmamma,  don't  worry.  I  am  sure  he  can- 
not help  it ;  perhaps  he  is  come  now." 


I '] 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


2J3 


i  for  the 
is  there 


:se. 


shall  be 

rhe  man 

deserves 

for  him  ; 


ad.     Has 

,nd  knows 
ng  gentle- 
.de  his  ap- 
ne  than  is 
ed  himself 


xcited,  Sir 
onsidering 
him  since, 
g  him  here 

•e  the  end 
on't  it  ? " 
him  fronn 
of  what  he 
g  seems  to 
he  greatest 

ain. 

elieve  your 
nette  would 

nd  not  pay- 

asion !  it  is 

urc  he  can- 


"Here  come  your  bridemaids,  at  all  events,"  said 
lady  Agnes,  as  the  communicating  door  opened,  and  the 
bevy  of  gay  girls  floated  in,  robed  in  white,  and  crowned 
with  flowers,  and  gathered  round  the  bride  like  butter- 
flies round  a  rose,  and — 

"Oh,  how  charming!  Oh,  how  lovely  1  Oh,  how 
beautiful!"  was  the  universal  cry.  "You  are  looking 
your  very  best  to-night,  Victoria." 

"So  she  ought,  and  so  will  you  all,  young  ladies,  on 
your  wedding-night,"  said  Lady  Agnes. 

"Is  it  time  to  go  down?  Has  everybody  come?"  in- 
quired one. 

"It  is  certainly  time  to  go  down,  but  I  do  not  know 
whether  everybody  has  come.  Hark !  is  not  that  your 
papa's  voice  in  the  hall,  Victoria  ? " 

"Yes.  Do  let  him  come  in,  grandmamma.  I  know 
he  would  like  to  see  me  before  going  downstairs." 

Lady  Agnes  opened  the  door,  and  saw  her  son  coming 
rapidly  through  the  hall,  looking  very  pale  and  stern. 

"Has  Leicester  come  yet ? " 

"No." 

"Good  heavens  !     And  it  is  nine  o'clock  !  " 

"Exactly.  And  all  those  people  below  are  gathered  in 
groups,  and  whispering  mysteriously.  By  heavens !  I 
feel  tempted  to  kick  him  when  he  does  come." 

"Oh,  Cliffe,  something  has  happened  !  " 

"Perhaps.     Is  the  bride  ready  ? " 

''Yes;  come  in;  she  wishes  to  see  you — the  bride  is 
ready  ;  but  where  is  the  bridegroom  ?  " 

"  Where,  indeed  ?  But  don't  alarm  yourself  yet ;  he  may 
come  after  all." 

He  followed  his  mother  into  the  bride's  maiden  bower, 
and  that  dazzling  young  lady  came  forward  with  a  radiant 
face. 

"  Papa,  how  do  I  look  ?  " 

"  Don't  ask  me  ;  look  in  the  glass.  You  are  all  angels, 
every  one  of  you." 

He  touched  his  lips  to  the  pretty  brow,  and  tried  to 
laugh,  but  it  was  a  failure  ;  and  then,  nervous  as  a  girl, 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  with  anxiety,  he  hurried  out 
and  downstairs,  to  see  if  the  truant  had  come. 

No,  he  had  not  come.  The  bonfires  were  blazing, 
the  joy-bells  were  ringing,  the  park  was  one  blaze  of 


■•  I 


a 


M 


t 


^\ 


\ 

■  \ 


•  34 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


rainbow  lip^ht,  all  the  clocks  in  the  town  were  striking 
nine,  and  Leicester  Cliffe  had  not  come. 

Sir  Roland,  nearly  beside  himself  with  mortification 
and  rage,  was  striding  up  and  down  the  hall. 

"  Is  she  ready  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  the  colonel,  using  the  words  of  his  mother, 
"tho  bride  is  ready  and  waiting,  but  where  is  the  bride- 
groom ? " 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


WHERE   THE    BRIDEGROOM   WAS. 


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The  waning  sunlight  of  Vivia's  bridal-day,  streaming 
through  the  rather  dirty  windows  of  Peter  Black's  cottage, 
fell  on  Mr.  Sylvester  Sweet,  sitting  beside  the  hearth, 
and  talking  very  earnestly  indeed.  His  only  listener 
was  old  Judith,  who  had  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands,  and  was  moaning  and  crying,  and  rocking  to  and 
fro. 

"My  dear  Judith — my  good  Judith!"  he  was  sooth- 
ingly saying,  "don't  distress  yourself;  there  is  no  oc- 
casion— not  the  least  in  the  world  !  " 

But  his  good  Judith  was  not  to  be  comforted ;  she  only 
lifted  up  her  voice  and  wept  the  louder. 

"You  knew  all  along  it  must  come  to  this  ;  or  if  you 
didn't,  you  ought  to  have  known  it.  Such  guilty  secrets 
cannot  be  kept  forever  !  " 

"And  they  will  put  me  in  prison — they  will  transport 
me  ;  maybe  they  will  hang  me  !  Oh,  I  wish  I  was  dead  ! 
— I  wish  I  was  dead  !  "  wailed  the  old  woman,  rocking 
to  that  extent  that  there  seemed  some  danger  of  her  rock- 
ing off  her  stool, 

"  Nonsense.  They  will  neither  put  you  in  prison, 
transport,  nor  hang  you.  Though,"  added  Mr.  Sweet, 
politely,  "you  know  you  deserve  it  all." 

"And  then  there's  Barbara  !  "  cried  old  Judith,  paying 
no  attention  whatever  to  him,  and  breaking  out  into  a 
fresh  burst  of  wailing.  "She'll  kill  me.  I  know  she 
will.     She  always  was  fierce  and  savage,  and  when  she 


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hears  this Oh,   dear  me  !    I  wish  I  was  dead  ! — I 

do!" 

"  Yes  ;  but,  my  dear  soul,  we  can't  spare  you  yet  a 
while.  Now,  dry  up  your  tears  and  be  reasonable  ;  now 
do.  Remember,  if  all  doesn't  go  well,  I'll  hang  your 
son  !  " 

"Oh,  I  don't  expect  anything  but  that  we'll  all  hang 
together.  Oh,  I  wish  I  was  dead  !  "  reiterated  Judith, 
det'^rmined  to  stick  to  that  to  the  last. 

"I'll  soon  gratify  th.-it  wish,  you  old  Jezebel!"  said 
Mr.  Sweet,  setting  his  teeth,  "if  you  don't  stop  your 
whimpering.  What  did  you  do  it  for,  it  you  are  such  a 
coward  about  it  now  ?  " 

"I  didn't  expect  it  would  ever  be  found  out.  Oh,  I 
wish " 

Exasperated  beyond  endurance,  her  companion  seized 
the  tongs  ;  and  old  Judith,  with  a  shrill  shriek,  cowered 
back  and  held  out  her  arms  in  tcrior. 

"Be  still,  then,  or  by "  (Mr.  Sweet  swore  a  fright- 
ful oath,  that  would  have  done  honor  to  Mr.  Black  him- 
self) "  I'll  smash  your  head  for  you  !  Stop  your  whining 
and  listen  to  reason.  Are  you  prepared  to  take  your  oath, 
concerning  the  story  I  have  to  tell  ?  " 

Again  Judith  took  to  rocking  and  wringing  her  hands. 

"  I  must — I  must — I  must  !  and  I  will  be  killed  for  it, 
I  know." 

"You  won't,  I  tell  you.  Neither  you  nor  your  son 
will  come  to  harm.  I'll  see  to  that.  But,  mind,  if  you 
don't  swear  to  everything,  straight  and  true,  I'll  have  both 
of  you  hanging  by  the  end  of  the  month,  as  high  as 
Haman  ! " 

Judith  set  up  such  a  howl  of  despair  at  this  pleasant 
intimation,  that  the  lawyer  had  to  grasp  the  tongs  again, 
and  brandish  them  within  an  inch  of  her  nose,  before  she 
would  consent  to  subside. 

"  My  worthy  old  lady,  I'll  knock  your  brains  out  if  you 
try  that  again  ;  and  so  I  give  you  notice.  You  have 
only  to  swear  to  the  facts  before  Colonel  Shirley,  or  any 
other  person  or  persons  concerned,  and  you  will  be  all 
right.  Stick  to  the  truth  through  thick  and  thin  ;  there's 
nothing  like  it,  and  I'll  protect  you  through  it  all." 

Judith's  only  answer  was  to  rock  and  whine,  and 
whimper  dismally. 

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WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


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"You  know,"  said  Mr.  Sweet,  looking  at  her  steadily, 
"you  had  no  advisers,  no  accomplices.  You  plotted  the 
ivhole  thing,  and  carried  it  out  alone.     Didn't  you  ?  " 

"Yes;  Idid— Idid!" 

"You  had  the  very  natural  desire  to  benefit  your  own 
flesh  and  blood,  and  you  thought  it  would  never  be  found 
out.  Your  daughter-in-law  went  crazy,  was  sent  to  a 
lunatic  asylum,  and  you  told  your  son,  on  his  return 
from  —  no  matter  where  —  that  she  was  dead.  Didn't 
you  ? " 

"Yes,  yes  !     Oh,  dear  me,  yes  !  " 

* '  Some  things  that  you  dropped  made  me  suspect.  I 
accused  you,  and  in  your  guilt  you  confessed  all.  Didn't 
you .? " 

*'  Yes,  I  s'pose  I  did.  I  don't  know.  Oh,  I  wish  I 
was " 

For  the  third  time  her  companion  grabbed  the  tongs, 
and  the  old  woman  subsided  again  into  pitiful  whimpering. 

"  Now  you  know,  Judith  Wildman,  if  you  aggravate  me 
too  much,  what  will  be  the  consequence.  I  am  going  up 
to  the  Castle  to  tell  this  story  to-night — a  shameful  story, 
that  you  should  have  told  long  ago — and  you  must  hold 
yourself  prepared  to  swear  to  it,  when  called  upon  to  do 
so.  Your  son  knew  nothing  of  it — he  knows  nothing  of 
it  yet  ;  so  no  blame  attaches  to  him,  and  all  will  end 
right." 

That  might  be  ;  but  Judith  couMn't  see  it,  and  her  misery 
was  a  piteous  sight  to  behold.  For  that  matter,  Mr.  Sweet 
himself  did  not  look  too  much  at  his  ease  .lOthing  near 
so  much  as  was  his  suave  wont,  and  the  paleness  that  lay 
on  his  face,  and  the  excited  light  that  gleamed  in  his  eyes, 
were  much  the  same  as  had  been  seen  on  his  wedding- 
day. 

"The  whole  extent  of  the  matter  is  this,"  he  said,  lay- 
ing it  down  with  the  finger  of  his  right  hand  on  the  palm 
of  his  left.  "I  will  tell  the  story,  and  you  will  be  called 
upon  to  relate  it.  If  you  do  right,  and  keep  to  the  truth, 
you  and  your  son  will  get  off  scot  free,  and  I  will  send 
you  away  from  this  place  richer  than  you  ever  were  be- 
fore. If,  on  the  contrary,  you  bungle  and  make  a  mess 
of  it,  out  will  come  the  pleasant  little  episode  of  Jack 
Wildman,  who  will  swing  from  the  top  of  the  Cliftonlea 
jail ,  immediately  after  the  assizes ;  and  you,  my  worthy 


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WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


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«oul,  if  you  escape  a  similar  fate,  will  rot  out  the  rest  of 
your  life  in  the  workhouse.     Do  yov  understand  that  ?  " 

The  question  was  rather  superfluous,  for  Judith  under- 
stood it  so  well  that  she  rolled  off  her  stool,  and  worked 
on  the  floor  in  a  sort  of  fit. 

Rather  dismayed,  the  lawyer  jumped  up  ;  but,  as  in  the 
course  of  a  little  more  kicking  and  struggling,  she  worked 
herself  out  of  it  again,  into  a  state  of  moaning  and  gasp- 
ing, he  took  his  hat  and  gloves  and  turned  to  go. 

"You  had  better  get  up  off  the  floor,  Mrs.  Wildman, 
and  take  a  smoke,"  was  his  parting  advice.  "Good-bye. 
Don't  go  to  bed.  You  will  probably  be  wanted  before 
morning." 

He  walked  away,  turning  one  backward  glance  on  the 
waving  trees  at  the  park,  smiling  as  he  did  so.  The  fish^ 
ermen  he  met  pulled  off  their  hats  to  the  steward  of  their 
lady,  and  never  before  had  they  known  him  to  be  so  con- 
descendingly gracious  in  returning  it.  As  he  passed 
through  the  town,  too,  everybody  noticed  that  the  lawyer 
was  in  uncommon  good-humor  even  for  him  ;  and  he 
quite  beamed  on  the  servant-maid  who  opened  the  door 
of  his  own  house  when  he  knocked.  It  was  a  very  nice 
house — was  Mr.  Sweet's — with  a  spacious  garden  around 
it,  belonging  to  Lady  Agnes,  and  always  occupied  by  her 
agent. 

"Where  is  your  mistre.  >,  Elizabeth?"  he  asked. 

"  Missis  be  in  the  parlor,  sir,  if  you  please." 

Two  doors  flanked  the  hall.  He  opened  one  to  the 
right  and  entered  a  pretty  room — medallion  carpet  on  the 
floor,  tasteful  paper-hangings  on  the  walls,  nice  tables  and 
sofas,  some  pictures  in  gilt  frames,  a  large  marble-topped 
table,  strewn  with  books,  in  the  center  of  the  floor,  and  a 
great  many  china  dogs  and  cats  on  the  mantel-piece. 
But  the  window,  for  it  had  only  one  window,  this  parlor — 
was  pleasanter  than  all — a  deep  bay-windov/,  with  a  sort 
of  divan  all  around  it ;  and  when  the  crimson  moreen  car- 
tains  were  down,  it  was  the  cosiest  little  room  in  the 
world. 

It  was  in  this  recess,  lying  among  soft  cushions,  that 
the  new  Mrs.  Sweet  had  spent  all  her  time  since  her  re- 
turn to  Cliftonlea ;  and  it  was  there  her  husband  expect- 
ed to  find  her  now.  There  she  was  not,  however,  but 
walking  up  and  down  the  room  with  the  air  of  a  tragedy- 


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queen.  Neither  Rachel  nor  Mrs.  Siddons  in  their  palm* 
lest  days  could  have  surpassed  it.  Her  hands  were  clench- 
ed, her  eyes  were  flaming,  her  step  had  a  fiercely  me- 
tallic ring,  her  dark  profusion  of  hair,  as  if  to  add  to  the 
effect,  was  unbound  and  streaming  around  hei,  and  had 
any  stranger  entered  just  then,  and  seen  her,  his  thought 
would  have  been  that  he  had  got  by  mistake  into  the  cell 
of  some  private  lunatic  asylum. 

"What  new  tantrum  is  this  my  lady  has  got  into?" 
thought  Mr.  Sweet,  quailing  a  little  before  the  terrible  light 
in  his  lady's  eyes,  as  he  shut  the  door  and  stood  looking 
at  her  with  his  back  to  it.  "  My  dear  Barbara,  what  is 
the  matter .? " 

The  only  answer  as  she  strode  past  was  a  glare  out  of 
the  flashing  eyes,  under  which  he  inwardly  cowered,  even 
as  he  repeated  the  question. 

**  My  dear  Barbara,  what  is  the  matter ,?  " 

She  stopped  this  time  and  stood  before  him,  looking 
so  much  like  a  frenzied  maniac  that  his  sallow  complexion, 
in  his  terror,  turned  a  sort  of  sea-green. 

* '  Don't  ask  me !  "  she  said,  fairly  hissing  the  words 
through  her  closed  teeth;  "don't!  There  is  a  spirit 
within  me  that  is  not  from  heaven,  and  the  less  you  of 
all  people  say  to  me  to-night,  the  better !  " 

' '  But,  my  dear  Barbara " 

"Your  dear  Barbara  !  "  she  broke  out,  with  passionate 
scorn.  "Oh,  blind,  blind  fool !  blind,  besotted  fool  that 
I  was  ever  to  come  to  this  !  Go,  I  tell  you  !  If  you  have 
any  mercy  on  yourself,  go  and  leave  me  !  I  am  not  my- 
self, I  am  mad,  and  you  are  not  safe  in  the  same  room 
with  me  !  " 

"Barbara,  hear  me  !  " 

"Not  a  word,  not  a  syllable  !  I  have  awakened  from 
my  trance — the  horrible  trance  in  which  I  was  inveigled 
to  marry  you  !  Man  !  "  she  cried,  in  a  sort  of  frenzy,  stop- 
ping before  him  again,  "  if  you  had  poisoned  me  I  could 
have  forgiven  you,  but  for  making  me  your  wife,  I  can 
never  forgive  you — never,  until  my  dying  day  !  " 

"Barbara!" 

But  she  would  not  hear  him  ;  for  the  time  she  was  al- 
most insane,  and  tore  up  and  down  the  room  like  a  very 
fury. 

"Oh,    miserable,    driveling   idiot   that   I   have  been  1 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


229 


Sunken,  degraded  wretch  that  I  am,  ever  to  have  married 
this  thing  !  And  you,  poor,  pitiful  hound,  whom  I  hate 
and  despise  more  than  any  other  creature  on  God's  earth, 
you  forced  me  into  this  marriage  when  I  was  beside 
myself,  and  knew  not  what  I  did :  You,  knowing  I 
loved  another,  cajoled  me  into  marrying  you,  and  I  hate 
you  for  it !     I  hate  you  !     I  hate  you  !  " 

Mr,  Sweet's  complexion,  from  sea-green,  turned  livid 
and  ghastly,  but  his  voice,  though  husky,  was  strangely 
calm. 

"I  did  not  force  you,  Barbara.  You  know  what  you 
married  me  for — revenge  !  " 

"Revenge!"  she  echoed,  breaking  into  a  hysterical 
laugh.  "Why,  man,  I  tell  you,  one  other  such  victory 
would  cost  me  my  soul  !  Yes,  I  have  the  revenge  of 
knowing  I  am  despised  by  the  man  I  love  !  Do  you  hear 
that,  Sylvester  Sweet — the  man  whom  I  love,  every  hair 
of  whose  head  is  dearer  to  me  than  your  whole  miserable 
soul  and  body  !  " 

Strange  lividness  this  in  Mr.  Sweet's  placid  face  ! 
Strange  fire  this  in  his  calm  eye  ;  but  his  voice  was  steady 
and  unmoved  still. 

"You  forget,  Barbara,  that  he  jilted  you." 

"And  you  dare  to  taunt  me  with  that!"  she  almost 
shrieked,  all  her  tiger  passions  unchained.  "Oh,  that  I 
had  a  knife,  that  I  might  drive  it  to  the  hilt  in  your  heart 
for  daring  to  say  such  a  thing  to  me  !  Oh,  I  had  fallen 
low  before — a  forsaken,  despised,  cast-off  wretch,  but  I 
never  sunk  entirely  into  the  slime  until  I  married  you  ! 
Yes,  he  jilted  me  ;  but  I  love  him  still — love  him  as  much 
as  I  hate  and  despise  you  !  Go,  I  tell  you  !  go  and  leave 
me,  or  I  will  strangle  you  where  you  stand  !  " 

She  was  mad.  He  saw  that  in  her  terrible  face.  But 
through  all  his  horror  he  strove  to  soothe  her. 

"Barbara  !  Barbara  I  let  me  say  one  word  !  The  hour 
for  full  and  complete  vengeance  has  come  at  last !  To- 
night you  will  triumph  over  him — over  them  all.  His 
very  bride  shall  be  torn  from  him  at  the  altar,  and  you 
shall  be  proclaimed Barbara  !     Great  Heaven  !  " 

She  had  been  standing  before  him,  but  she  reeled  sud- 
denly and  would  have  fallen  had  he  not  caught  her.  The 
frantic  fit  of  fury  into  which  she  had  lashed  herself  had 
given  way,  and  with  it  all  her  mad  strength. 


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But  she  was  not  fainting,  for  at  his  hated  touch,  a  look 
of  unutterable  loathing  came  over  the  white  face,  and  with 
a  sort  of  expiring  effort  she  lifted  her  hands  and  pushed 
him  away. 

'•  Go  !  "  she  said,  rising  and  clinging  to  the  table,  while 
her  stormy  voice  was  scarcely  louder  than  a  whisper. 
"  Go  !     If  you  do  not  leave  me,  I  shall  die  !  " 

He  saw  that  she  would.  It  was  written  in  every  line 
of  her  death-like  face — in  every  quiver  of  the  tottering 
form,  all  thrilling  with  repulsion.  He  turned  and  opened 
the  door. 

"I  will  go,  then  Barbara,"  he  said,  turning  for  a  last 
look  as  he  passed  out.  "  I  go  to  fulfil  my  promise  and 
complete  your  revenge." 

He  closed  the  door,  went  through  the  hall,  down  the 
steps,  along  the  graveled  walk,  and  out  into  the  busy, 
bustling  street.  And  how  was  Mr.  Sweet  to  know  that 
he  and  his  bride  had  parted  forever? 

With  the  last  sounds  of  his  footsteps,  Barbara  had  tot- 
tered to  the  divan  and  sank  down  among  the  cushions 
with  a  prayer  in  her  heart  she  had  not  strength  enough 
to  utter  in  words,  that  she  might  never  rise  again.  All 
the  giant  fury  of  her  passion  had  passed  away  ;  but  she 
had  no  tears  to  shed — nothing  to  do  but  lie  there  and  feel 
that  she  had  lost  life,  and  that  her  seared  heart  had  turned 
to  dust  and  ashes.  There  was  no  wish  for  revenge  left  ; 
that  was  gone  with  her  strength — no  wish  for  anything 
but  to  lie  there  and  die.  She  knew  that  it  was  his  wed- 
ding-night. She  heard  carriage  after  carriage  rolling  away 
to  Castle  Cliffe,  and  she  felt  as  if  the  wheels  of  all  were 
crashing  over  her  heart. 

The  last  rosy  ray  of  the  daylight  had  faded,  the  summer 
moon  rose  up,  stealing  in  through  the  curtains,  and  its 
pale  light  lay  on  the  bowed  young  head  like  the  pitying 
hand  of  a  friend. 

There  came  a  knock  at  the  front  door — a  knock  loud 
and  imperative,  that  rang  from  end  to  end  of  the  house. 
Why  did  Barbara's  heart  bound  as  if  it  would  leap  from 
her  breast  ?  She  had  never  heard  that  knock  before. 
There  was  a  step  in  the  hall,  light,  quick  and  decided — a 
voice,  too,  that  she  would  have  known  all  the  world  over. 
She  had  hungered  and  thirsted  for  that  voice — she  had 
desired  it  as  the  blind  desire  sight. 


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WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


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**  And  am  I  really  going  mad  ? "  was  Barbara's  thought 

It  was  no  madness.  The  door  was  opened,  the  step 
was  in  the  room,  and  Elizabeth,  the  housemaid,  was 
speaking : 

"  Missis  be  in  here,  sir.     I'll  go  and  fetch  a  light." 

"Never  mind  the  light." 

The  door  was  closed  in  Elizabeth's  face,  the  key  turned 
to  keep  out  intruders,  and  some  one  was  bending  over 
Barbara  as  she  lay,  or  rather  crouched.  She  could  not 
tell  whether  she  was  sane  or  mad.  She  dared  not  look 
up  ;  it  must  be  all  an  illusion.  What  could  he  be  doing 
here,  and  to-night  ? 

"Barbara!" 

Oh,  that  voice.  If  this  was  madness  she  never  wished 
to  be  sare  again. 

"Barbara!" 

Some  one's  hair  was  touching  her  cheek — some  one's 
hand  was  holding  her  own — the  dear  voice  was  at  her 
ear. 

"  Barbara,  have  you  no  word  for  me,  either  of  hatred 
or  forgiveness  ?   Will  you  not  even  look  at  me,  Barbara  ? " 

She  lifted  her  face  for  one  instant.  Yes,  it  was  he, 
pale  and  passionate — he  here,  even  at  this  hour.  She 
dared  not  look — she  dropped  her  face  again  in  the 
cushions. 

"  Have  I  then  sinned  beyond  redemption?  Am  I  so 
utterly  hateful  to  you,  Barbara,  that  you  cannot  even  look 
at  me  ? " 

Barbara  was  mute. 

"Do  you  know  that  I  was  to  be  married  to-night — that 
my  bride  is  waiting  for  me  even  now  ?  " 

"I  know  it !  I  know  it !  "  she  said,  with  a  sort  of  cry 
— that  arrow  going  to  the  mark.  "Oh,  Leicester,  you 
have  broken  my  heart !  " 

"I  have  been  a  traitor  and  a  villain,  I  know;  but  vil- 
lian  as  I  am,  I  could  not  finish  what  I  had  begun.  At 
the  last  hour  I  have  deserted  them  all,  Barbara,  to  kneel 
at  your  feet  again.  She  is  beautiful  and  good ;  but  I  only 
love  you,  and  to  you  I  have  come  back.  Will  you  send 
me  Away,  Barbara  ?  " 

Her  hand  only  tightened  over  his  for  answer.  In  that 
moment  she  only  knew  that  she  was  utterly  miserable 
and  desperate,  and  that  she  loved  this  man.     She  felt  her- 


!■■•  f 


I;; 


II 


232 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


;        .1 


■I    li: 


self  standing  on  a  quicksand,  and  that  it  was  shifting 
away  under  her  feet,  and  letting  her  down. 

"When  I  left  you  and  went  to  London,  Barbara,"  the 
dear,  low  voice  went  on,  "  and  saw  her  first,  I  was  daz- 
zled ;  and  somehow — Heaven  only  knows  how  ! — I  prom- 
ised  to  fulfil  an  engagement  made  years  before  I  had 
even  heard  of  her.  While  she  glittered  before  me  the 
daze  continued ;  but  the  moment  I  left  her  the  scales  fell 
from  my  eyes,  and  I  saw  it  all.  I  came  back  toCliftonlea, 
determined  to  give  up  everything  for  love  and  you — to 
make  you  my  wife,  and  seek  together  a  home  in  the  New 
World.  I  came.  As  I  passed  the  cathedral  I  saw  a 
crowd,  and  entering,  the  first  thing  I  beheld  was  you, 
Barbara,  the  wife  of  another  man — my  repentance  and 
resolution  all  too  late  !  " 

His  listener  had  a  long  account  to  settle  with  that  other 
man.  It  was  only  one  more  item  added  to  the  catalogue, 
and  she  said  nothing  ;  and  still  holding  her  hand  tighter, 
and  coming  nearer,  the  voice  went  on  : 

"I  thought  I  would  give  you  up,  forget  you,  and  take 
the  bride  they  had  chosen  for  me ;  but  now,  at  the  last 
hour,  I  find  that  life  without  you  is  less  than  worthless. 
Your  marriage  was  a  mockery.  You  cannot  care  for 
this  man.  Will  you  send  me  away,  desolate  and  alone, 
over  the  world  }  " 

Still  she  did  not  speak.  The  sand  was  slipping  away 
fast,  and  she  was  going  down. 

"Barbara,"  he  whispered,  "you  do  not  love  this  man 
— you  love  me  !  Then  leave  him  forever,  and  fly  with 
me!" 


;!ii 


I  .i 


shifting 

ara,"  the 
was  daz- 
— 1  prom- 
re  1  had 
3  me  the 
icales  fell 
lliftonlea, 
[  you — to 
,  the  New 
1  saw  a 
was  you, 
:ance  and 

that  other 
::atalogue, 
id  tighter, 

,  and  take 
at  the  last 
1  worthless, 
t  care  for 
iiid  alone, 

ping  away 

this  man 
id  fly  with 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


233 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


THE   STORY. 


The  road  from  the  town  of  Cliftonlea  to  the  Castle  was 
a  somewhat  long  one ;  but  by  turning  off  and  going 
through  Lower  Cliffe  and  the  park  gates,  the  distance  was 
shortened  by  half.  Mr.  Sweet,  however,  did  not  choose 
to  take  this  short-cut,  but  walked  on  through  the  town,  at 
his  usual  steady  pace,  neither  slowly  nor  hurriedly,  and 
the  white  summer  moon  was  shining  over  his  head  as  he 
passed  the  Italian  cottage.  The  whole  park  seemed  alive. 
Up  on  a  hill  fireworks  in  full  blaze,  and  a  vast  crowd  was 
gathered  round  them.  Down  in  a  smooth  hollow  the 
Cliftonlea  brass  band  was  discoursing  merry  music  ;  and 
on  the  velvet  sward  the  dancers  were  enjoying  themselves 
in  another  way.  The  place  was  one  blaze  of  rainbow 
light  from  the  myriad-colored  lamps  hung  in  the  trees  ; 
and  the  moon  was  more  like  a  dim  tallow  candle,  set  up 
in  the  sky  to  be  out  of  the  way,  than  anything  else.  The 
joy-bells  were  clashing  out,  high  over  all,  and  mingled 
with  their  loud  ringing,  the  lawyer  caught  the  sound  of 
the  cathedral  clock  tolling  nme  as  he  entered  the  paved 
court-yard.  He  paused  for  a  moment,  with  a  smile  on 
his  lips. 

"  Nine  o'clock — the  appointed  hour!  Perhaps  I  will  be 
too  late  for  the  ceremony,  after  all,"  he  said  to  himself  as 
he  ran  up  the  steps. 

The  i^reat  hall  door  stood  open  to  admit  the  cool  night 
air,  and,  standing  in  a  blaze  of  light,  he  saw  Sir  Roland 
and  Colonei  Shirley  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  No  one  else 
was  in  the  domed  hall  but  the  servants,  who  flitted  cease- 
lessly to  and  fro  at  the  farther  end  ;  and  he  stepped  in,  hat 
in  hand. 

The  two  gentlemen  turned  simultaneously  and  eager- 
ly, but  the  faces  of  both  fell  when  they  saw  who  it 
was. 

"Good-evening,    Sir   Roland;   good-evening,    Colonel 


it 


!.     i 


il 


■  w 

.    1' 
'     i 


234 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


M 


m 


'B>! 


I  if 


.    i 


^1 


\'\ 


Shirley,"  began  Mr.  Sweet,  bowing  low.  "Permit  me  to 
offer  my  congratulations  on  this  happy  occasion." 

"Congratulations!"  exclaimed  the  colonel.  "Faith, 
I  think  there  will  be  something  besides  congratulations 
needed  shortly  !  Have  you  seen  Mr.  Leicester  Cliffe  any- 
where in  your  travels  to-night,  Mr.  Sweet  ? " 

Mr.  Sweet  looked  at  the  speaker  in  undisguised  astonish- 
ment. 

"Mr.  Leicester  !     Is  it  possible  that  he  is  not  here?  " 

"Very  possible,  my  dear  sir.  I  shall  be  most  happy 
to  see  him  when  he  comes,  and  let  him  know  what  it  is 
to  be  disgracefully  kicked. " 

**  Is  it  really  possible  ?  Where  in  the  world  can  he  be 
to-night,  of  all  nights,  if  not  here  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  that  is  what  I  would  like  to  have  some  one  tell 
me.  Wherever  he  may  be,  Castle  Cliffe  has  certainly  not 
the  honor  of  containing  him,  and  the  hour  for  the  cer- 
mony,  you  see,  is  past." 

"It  is  astonishing!  "  said  Mr.  Sweet,  slowly  and  look- 
ing a  little  bewildered  by  the  news.  "It  is  incompre- 
hensible !     I  never  heard  anything  like  it !  " 

"  I  agree  with  you.  But,  unhappily,  that  does  not  mend 
the  matter,  and  if  he  does  not  appear  within  the  next 
fifteen  minutes,  you  will  have  the  goodness  to  go  and  stop 
those  confounded  bells,  and  send  all  those  good  people 
in  the  park  about  their  business." 

"And  there  has  been  no  wedding,  then,  to-night?" 
said  Mr.  Sweet,  still  looking  bewildered. 

"  None  ;  nor  is  there  likely  to  be,  as  far  as  I  can  see." 

"And  Miss  Shirley  is  still " 

"Miss  Shirley — and  seems  in  a  fair  way  of  remaining 
so,  for  the  present  at  least. " 

"You  have  something  to  say,  Sweet,  have  you  not?  " 
asked  Sir  Roland,  who  had  been  watching  the  lawyer,  and 
seemed  struck  by  something  in  his  face. 

Mr.  Sweet  hesitated  a  little  ;  but  Colonel  Shirley  inter- 
posed impatiently : 

'  *  Out  with  it,  man  !  If  you  have  anything  to  say,  let 
us  have  it  at  once." 

"My  request  may  seem  strange — bold — almost  inad- 
missible," said  the  lawyer,  still  hesitating;  "but  J  do 
assure  you,  I  would  not  make  it  were  it  not  necessary." 

"What  is  the  man  driving  at  ? "  broke  out  the  colonel. 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


235 


in  astonishment  and  impatience.  *  *  What's  all  this  palaver 
about  ?  Come  to  the  pcmt  at  once,  Sweet,  and  let  us  have 
this  inadmissible  request  of  yours." 

"It  is,  Colonel,  that  I  see  Miss  Shirley  at  once,  and 
alone  !  I  have  two  or  three  words  to  say  to  her  that  it  is 
absolutely  necessary  that  she  should  hear." 

Sir  Roland  and  Colonel  Shirley  looked  at  each  other,  and 
then  at  Mr.  Sweet,  who,  in  spite  of  every  effort,  seemed  a 
little  nervous  and  excited. 

"See  Miss  Shirley  at  once  and  alone!"  repeated  Sir 
Roland,  looking  at  him  with  some  of  his  sister's  piercing 
intentness.  '-You  did  right  to  say  that  your  request  was 
a  strange  and  bold  one.  What  can  you  possibly  have  to 
say  to  Miss  Shirley  ? " 

"A  few  very  important  words,  Sir  Roland." 

"Say  them,  then,  to  the  young  lady's  father — she  has 
no  secrets  from  him." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  I  cannot  do  so.  That  is,  I  would 
infinitely  rather  say  them  to  herself  first,  and  leave  it  to 
her  own  good  pleasure  to  repeat  them. " 

"Are  you  sure  it  is  nothing  about  my  son  } " 

"Certainly,  Sir  Roland.     Of  your  son  I  know  nothing." 

"Well,  it's  odd!"  said  the  colonel,  "but  I  have  no 
objection  to  your  seeing  Vivia,  if  she  has  none.  Come 
this  way  Mr.  Sweet." 

Ascending  the  wide  staircase  as  lightly  as  he  could  have 
done  twenty  years  before,  the  colonel  gained  the  upper 
hall,  followed  by  the  lawyer,  and  tapped  at  the  door  of 
the  Rose  Room.  It  was  opened  immediately  by  Lady 
Agnes,  who  looked  out  with  an  anxious  face. 

"Oh,  Cliffe  !  has  Leicester  come  ?  " 

"No,  indeed;  but  a  very  different  person  has — Mr. 
Sweet." 

"Mr.  Sweet!  Does  he  bring  any  news  ?  Has  any- 
thing happened .? " 

"  No  ;  though  he  says  he  wants  to  see  Vivia." 

"See  Vivia!"  exclaimed  her  ladyship,  looking  to  the 
last  degree  amazed,  not  to  say  shocked,  at  the  unprece- 
dented request.      "  Has  Mr.  Sweet  gone  crazy  ? " 

"Not  that  I  know  of.  But  here  he  is  to  answer  for 
himself." 

Thus  invoked,  Mr.  Sweet  presented  himself,  with  a 
deprecating  bow. 


!    I 


\  i' 


i    I 

i ; 


11 


236 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


\i 


'   !  i 


■  M 


iki 


•i)i 


:i'i 


w. 


m 


III 


■  i ' ' 

•  ■    1 

1 

1           i 

1 

i:  1., 

■  ^  - 1; 

1  '    '■     ■ 

liij 

"I  begf  your  pardon,  my  Jady.  I  know  the  requet 
seems  strange  ;  but  I  cannot  help  it,  unreasonable  as  the 
time  is.  I  beg  of  you  to  let  me  see  Miss  Shirley  at  once, 
and  the  explanation  shall  come  afterward." 

"  1  shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  I'm  surprised  at  you, 
Mr.  Sweet !  What  can  you  mean  by  so  outrageous  a 
request  ? " 

"My  lady,  if  you  insist  upon  it,  I  must  tell  you,  but  I 
earnestly  entreat  you  not  to  force  me  to  a  public  explana- 
tion, until  1  have  spoken  in  private  to  Miss  Shirley." 

"Oh,  it  is  something  about  Leicester!  I  know  it  is, 
and  he  wants  to  prepare  her  for  some  shock.  Mr.  Sweet, 
do  not  dare  to  trifle  with  me  !  I  am  no  baby  ;  and  if  it  is 
anything  about  him,  I  command  you  to  speak  out  at 
once  !  " 

"Lady  Agnes,  I  have  said,  again  and  again,  that  it  is 
nothing  about  him,  and  I  repeat  it.  Of  Mr.  Leicester 
Cliffo  1  know  nothing  whatever.  The  matter  simply  and 
solely  concerns  Miss  Shirley." 

"  Concerns  me  !  "  cried  a  silvery  voice,  and  the  beauti- 
ful, smiling  face  of  the  bride  peeped  over  grandmamma's 
satin  shoulder.  "Who  wants  Miss  Shirley.''  Oh,  Mr. 
Sweet,  IS  it  you  ?     Has  anythmg  happened  to " 

She  paused,  coloring  vividly. 

"Nothing  has  happened  to  Mr.  Cliffe,  I  hope,  Miss 
Shirley,"  said  Mr.  Sweet,  turning  his  anxious  face  to- 
ward that  young  lady.  "I  have  no  doubt  he  will  be 
here  presently.  But,  before  he  comes,  it  is  of  the  utmost 
importance  that  I  should  see  you  a  few  minutes  in 
private." 

Miss  Shirley  opened  her  blue  eyes  according  to  custom 
extremely  wide,  and  turned  them  in  bewildering  inquiry 
upon  her  papa. 

"Mr.  Sweet  has  some  awful  secret  to  reveal  to  you, 
Vivia,"  observed  that  gen  tlemcm,  smiling.  "The  'Mys- 
teries of  Udolpho '  were  plain  reading  compared  to  him 
this  evening." 

"If  Mr.  Sweet  has  anything  to  say  to  Miss  Shirley," 
said  Lady  Agnes,  haughtily,  "let  him  say  it  here,  and  at 
once.  I  cannot  have  any  secret  interview  and  mysterious 
nonsense." 

"  It  is  not  nonsense,  my  lady." 

"The   more  reason   you  should  out  with  it  at  once. 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


237 


You  do  not  need  to  be  told  that  anything  that  concerns 
Miss  Shirley  concerns  her  father  and  myself.  If  you  do 
not  like  that,  you  had  better  take  your  leave." 

At  this  sharp  speech,  Mr.  Sweet  turned  so  distressed  and 
imploring;  a  face  toward  Miss  Vivia,  that  that  good- 
natured  young  lady  felt  called  upon  to  strike  in. 

' '  Never  mind,  grandmamma.  There  is  nothing  so  very 
dreadful  in  his  speaking  to  me  in  private,  since  he  wishes 
it  so  much.     It  is  not  wrong — is  it,  papa?  " 

"Not  wrong,  but  rather  silly,  I  think." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Sweet  and  I  are  so  wise  generally  that  we 
can  afford  to  be  silly  for  once.  Don't  say  a  word,  grand- 
mamma ;  it's  all  right.  This  way,  if  you  please,  Mr. 
Sweet." 

Turning  her  pretty  face  as  she  went,  with  an  arch  little 
smile,  she  tripped  across  the  hall,  and  opened  the  door 
opposite — what  was  called  the  winter  drawing-room. 
The  lawyer  followed  the  shining  figure  of  the  bride  into 
the  apartment,  whose  pervading  tints  were  gold  and 
crimson,  and  which  was  illuminated  by  amber-shaded 
lamps,  filling  it  with  a  sort  of  golden  haze.  He  closed 
the  door  after  him,  and  stood  for  a  moment  with  his  back 
to  it. 

"Will  your  two  or  three  words  take  long  to  say?" 
asked  Miss  Shirley,  still  smiling — "  which  means,  am  I  to 
sit  down  or  stand  ?  " 

"  You  had  better  sit  down,  I  think,  Miss  Shirley." 

"Ah  !  I  thought  it  was  more  than  two  or  three  words  ; 
but  you  had  better  be  quick,  for  I  have  not  much  time  to 
spare  on  this  particular  evening  ! " 

She  sank  into  an  easy-chair  of  scarlet  velvet  ;  her  gos- 
samer robes  floating  about  her  like  white  mist  ;  her  grace- 
ful head,  with  its  snowy  vail,  and  golden  curls,  and 
jeweled  orange-blossoms,  leaning  lightly  against  its  glow- 
ing back  ;  the  exquisite  face  whereon  the  smile  still 
lingered,  as  she  lightly  waved  him  to  a  distant  chair. 
Truly,  she  was  dazzling  in  her  splendor  ;  but  her  com- 
panion was  not  dazzled — he  was  smiling  a  little  as  he 
took  his  seat. 

"Well,  Mr.  Sweet,  what  is  this  terrible  mystery  of  which 
papa  speaks  ? " 

* '  Colonel  Shirley  has  termed  it  rightly — it  is  a  terrible 
mystery." 


rt. 


lit  at  once. 


1: 


I     I  ! 


Sll: 


jtf  ' 


x'.M'i 


iV 


Mi' 


938 


IVEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


**  Indeed  I  And  it  concerns  me,  I  suppose,  or  you  would 
not  be  so  anxious  to  tell  it  to  me. " 

"Yes,  Miss  Shirley,  I  am  sorry  to  say  it  concerns  you 
very  closely  indeed.' 

"  Sorry  to  say  !     Well,  go  on  and  let  me  hear  it,  then." 

"It  is  a  somewhat  complicated  story,  Miss  Shirley, 
and  requires  me  go  back  a  long  time — over  eighteen 
years." 

Miss  Shirley  bowed  slowly  her  willingness  for  him  to  go 
back  to  the  Flood  if  he  liked. 

"  More  than  eighteen  years  ago.  Miss  Shirley,  there 
lived,  several  miles  from  London,  in  a  poor-enough  cot- 
tage— for  they  were  very  poor  people —  a  certain  man  and 
wife — Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Wildman." 

At  this  unexpected  announcement  Miss  Shirley  opened 
her  blue  eyes  again,  and  smiled  a  little  amused  smile,  as 
she  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 

"This  Mr.  John  Wildman  was  by  trade  a  bricklayer, 
and  often  absent  from  home  weeks  at  a  time.  One  morn- 
ing, very  early,  during  one  of  these  absences,  a  carriage 
drove  up  to  the  door,  and  a  young  lady  and  gentleman 
made  their  appearance  in  the  cottage.  The  young  lady 
appeared  to  be  ill,  and  the  gentleman  seemed  exceedingly 
anxious  that  she  should  lodge  there.  Mrs.  Wildman  was 
not  many  months  married ;  they  were  poor ;  she  wished 
to  help  her  husband,  if  she  could  ;  the  gentleman  promised 
to  pay  well,  and  she  consented.  He  went  away  immedi- 
ately, and  for  the  next  two  or  three  weeks  did  not  make 
his  appearance  again,  though  money  and  furniture  were 
sent  to  the  cottage.  At  the  end  of  that  time  two  events 
happened — a  child  was  born  ?  ad  the  lady  died.  Before 
her  death  she  had  sent  a  message  to  the  young  gentleman, 
who  came  in  time  to  see  her  laid  in  the  grave,  and  con- 
signed his  infant  daughter  to  the  care  of  Mrs.  Wildman  be- 
fore departing, as  he  thought, forever, from  his  native  land." 

During  this  preamble,  the  blue  eyes  had  opened  to  their 
widest  extent,  and  were  fixed  on  the  speaker  with  a  little 
bewildered  stare  that  said  plainly  enough  she  could  make 
neither  head  nor  tail  of  the  whole  thing. 

"Several  months  after  this,"  Mr.  Sweet  went  on 
steadily,  ''this  John  Wildman,  with  a  few  others  perpe- 
trated a  crime  for  which  he  was  transported,  leaving  his 
wife  and  child— for  they  had  a  child  some  weeks  old— to 


mv- 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


339 


ncern3  you 


get  on  as  best  they  might ;  the  strange  gentleman's  infant 
with  them.  It  was  by  means  of  this  very  infant  they 
managed  to  exist  at  all ;  for  its  father,  immediately  on  his 
arrival  in  India,  for  which  place  he  had  sailed,  sent  hev 
plentiful  remittances  ;  and  so,  for  nearly  six  years,  they 
got  along  tolerably  well.  At  the  end  of  that  time  she  fell 
ill,  and  her  husband's  mother,  who  lived  in  some  out-of, 
the-way  place  in  the  north  part  of  England,  was  sent  for, 
and  came  to  nurse  her  and  the  two  little  girls — whose 
names,  by  the  way,  I  forgot  to  tell  you,  were  Victoria  and 
Barbara. " 

During  all  this  time  his  listener  had  been  much  per- 
plexed by  this,  to  her,  incomprehensible  story.  But  now 
she  started  as  though  she  h^d  received  a  galvanic  shock. 

"What!     Victoria    and   Barbara!      It    isn't   p 
that " 


possible 


"  Permit  me  to  continue,  Miss  Shirley,"  said  Mr.  Sweet, 
bowing  without  looking  up,  "  and  you  will  soon  recog- 
nize the  characters.  Yes,  their  names  were  Victoria  and 
Barbara.  Victoria,  the  elder  by  a  few  months,  was  the 
daughter  of  the  dead  lady  ;  and  Barbara,  the  daughter  of 
the  transported  felon.  Judith,  the  mother-in-law,  came  to 
take  charge  of  them,  and  heard  for  the  first  time  the  whole 
story.  She  was  a  crafty  old  woman,  this  Judith,  with 
little  love  for  the  daughter-in-law  or  granddaughter  whom 
she  had  come  to  take  care  of.  But  she  was  wicked,  am- 
bitious, and  mischievous,  and  a  demoniac  plot  at  once 
entered  into  her  head.  A  letter  was  dispatched  to  the 
gentleman  in  India — he  was  an  officer,  too — telling  him 
that  the  Wildmans  were  about  to  leave  for  America,  and 
that  he  had  better  come  home  and  take  charge  of  his 
daughter.  Miss  Shirley,  he  came ;  but  it  was  not  his 
daughter  he  received  from  the  old  woman,  but  her  grand- 
daughter. The  children  were  not  unlike  ;  both  had  the 
same  fair  complexions,  and  light  hair,  and  blue  eyes. 
The  real  Victoria  was  kept  carefully  out  of  sight,  and  he 
carried  off  the  false  one  in  implicit  trust  and  placed  her  in 
a  convent  in  France.     Miss  Shirley,  I  beg " 

He  stopped  and  rose  hastily,  for  Miss  Shirley  had  sprung 
from  her  seat,  and  was  confronting  him  with  flashing 
eyes. 

"It  is  false!  It  is  false!  I  shall  never  believe  it! 
What  is  this  you  have  dared  to  tell  me,  Mr.  Sweet  ?  " 


!  ; 


4 


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240 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


ilwnmiy^ 


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m. 


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If,    :    :|.!l 


'■^■. 


1 


xu 


:ili 


"The  truth,  Miss  Shirley." 

"  Oh,  Heaven  !  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  I  am  really 
— that  I  am  not —  Oh,  it  is  too  false,  too  absurd  to 
hear !     I  will  not  stop  and  listen  to  you  any  longer." 

She  turned  excitedly  to  go  ;  but  he  placed  himself  be% 
tween  her  and  the  door. 

"  Miss  Shirley,  I  beg,  I  entreat,  for  Heaven's  sake, 
hear  me  out !  It  is  every  word  true.  Do  you  think  I 
wrtuld  come  here  and  repeat  such  a  tale,  if  1  was  not 
positive } " 

"Oh,  Mon  Dieu  !  what  is  he  saying?  Am  I  dreaming 
or  awake?" 

"  Miss  Shirley,  will  you  sit  down  and  bear  me  out? " 

"  Miss  Shirle)'- !  "  she  said,  with  a  sort  of  wildness  in 
her  look.  ' '  If  what  you  have  dared  to  say  be  true,  I  have 
no  right  to  that  name  !  J*  has  never  for  one  poor  mo- 
ment belonsred  to  me  !  " 

"You  are  quite  right;  but  the  name,  just  now,  is  of 
little  consequence.  Will  you  be  pleased  to  sit  down  and 
listen  v/hile  I  finish  ?  " 

"  I  am  listening,  go  on." 

She  sank  back  into  the  seat,  not  leaning  back  this  time, 
but  sitting  erect,  her  little  white  hands  clinging  to  ono 
arm  of  the  chair,  the  wonderful  blue  eyes  fixed  upon  hira 
wild  and  dilated. 

Her  companion  resumed  his  seat  and  his  story  ;  his 
own  eye  fixed  on  the  carpet. 

"The  little  girl  in  the  convent,  who  bore  the  name  of 
Victoria  Genevieve  Shirley,  but  who  in  reality  was  Bar- 
bara Wildman,  remained  there  until  she  was  twelve  years 
old,  v.ben  the  Indian  officer,  who  fancied  himself  her 
father,  again  returned  to  England,  his  mother,  and  his 
native  home  ;  and  his  little  girl,  the  supposed  heiress  of 
Castle  Cliffe,  was  sent  for  and  came  here.  Miss  Shirley, 
to  tell  you  any  more  of  her  history  would  be  superfluous  ; 
but  perhaps  you  would  like  to  hear  the  story  of  the  real, 
the  defrauded  heiress,  the  supposed  Barbara  ?  " 

He  paused  to  see  if  she  would  speak,  and  looked  at  her  ; 
but  one  glance  was  all  he  dared  venture,  and  hf  lowered 
his  eyes  and  went  hurriedly  on  : 

"The  sick  mother  knew  nothing  of  the  change  until  it 
was  too  late,  and  then  she  went  frantic  with  grief.  Old 
Jadith,  alarmed,  as  she  very  well  might  be,  managed  to 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


241 


remove  her  to  London,  by  telling  her  she  would  recover 
her  child  there  ;  and  when  there,  gave  out  she  was  mad, 
and  had  her  imprisoned  in  a  mad-house.  It  is  all  very- 
dreadful,  Miss  Shirley,  but  I  regret  to  repeat,  it  is  all  quite 
true,  neverthless." 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  sank  down, 
her  face  resting  on  the  arm  of  the  chair,  quivering  all 
over  for  a  moment  and  then  becoming  perfectly  still. 

"The  old  woman  changed  the  name  of  Wildman  to 
that  of  Black  ;  and  during  the  next  two  or  three  years 
lived  on  the  money  paid  her  by  Colonel  Shirley.  That 
began  to  give  out,  and  she  lesolved  to  make  Colonel 
Shirley's  daughter  find  her  more.  Barbara — the  children's 
names,  as  I  told  you,  were  changed — was  a  pretty  little 
girl  of  nine,  and  attracted  the  attention  of  the  manager 
of  a  band  of  strolling  players.  She  became  one  of  the 
band — the  most  popular  one  among  them — and  for  the 
next  two  years  she  and  her  grandmother  managed  very 
well,  when  one  day  they  were  astonished  by  the  un- 
looked-for appearance  of  the  transported  Mr.  Wildman, 
who  had  made  his  escape,  and  had  found  them  out.  He, 
*'^o,  took  the  name  of  Black — Peter  Black — attached 
himself  to  the  same  company,  and  the  three  went  wan- 
dering over  England  together.  Are  you  listening,  Miss 
Shirley .? " 

He  really  thought  she  was  not,  she  was  so  rigid  and 
still ;  but  at  the  question  she  partly  raised  herself  and 
looked  at  him. 

"Barbara  Black  that  was — your  wife  that  is — is  then 
the  real  Victoria  Shirley?" 

"She  is." 

He  did  not  dare  to  look  at  her ;  but  he  felt  the  blue 
eyes  were  transfixing  him  and  reading  his  very  heart.  It 
was  only  for  a  few  seconds,  and  then  she  dropped  her 
head  on  the  arm  of  the  chair  again,  and  lay  still. 

"They  came  here  to  Sussex  six  years  ago,  and,  strange 
enough,  settled  here.  The  old  woman  and  her  son  had 
each  probably  their  own  reasons  for  so  doing.  It  is  an 
out-of-the-way  place,  this  little  sea-coast  town,  and  the 
returned  convict  was  not  ambitious  to  extend  the  circle  of 
his  acquaintance  ;  and  his  moth  jr,  probably,  was  actuated 
by  a  desire  to  see  how  her  wicked  and  cruel  plot  worked. 
So  the  real  and  the  supposed  heiress  grew  up,  both  beauti- 
16 


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142 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


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li.h 


ful ;  but  all  similarity  ended  between  them  there— one  in 
the  lap  of  luxury,  envied,  admired,  and  happy  ;  the  other 
wretchedly  poor,  little  cared  for,  and  miserable.  But  I, 
Miss  Shirley,  knowing  nothing  of  all  this,  loved  her,  and 
married  her ;  and  it  is  only  within  the  last  day  or  two 
these  facts  have  come  to  my  knowledge.  I  beg  your  par- 
don, but  are  you  really  listening  ?  " 

He  could  not  tell  what  to  make  of  her.  She  lay  droop- 
ing over  the  side  of  the  chair,  so  immovable  that  she  might 
have  been  dead,  for  all  the  sig-ns  of  life  she  exhibited. 
But  she  was  very  far  from  dead  :  for  she  answered  as  she 
had  done  before,  and  a^^  once  ;  and  the  sweet  voice  was 
almost  harsh,  so  full  was  it  of  f.uppressed  inward  pain. 

"  I  am  listening.     Why  need  you  ask  ?     Go  on." 

"This  miserable  old  woman  was  fond  of  )^ou — excuse 
me  if  I  pain  you — and  Ler  exaltation  began  to  show  itsejf 
when  she  found  you  were  to  be  the  bride  of  the  first 
gentleman  in  Sussex.  Her  reputed  granddaughter,  whom 
she  feared  and  disliked,  was  my  wife ;  all  her  schemes 
seemed  accomplished,  and,  in  her  triumph,  she  dropped 
hints  that  roused  my  suspicions.  I  followed  them  up, 
suspected  a  great  deal,  and  at  last  boldly  accused  her  of 
all.  Sho  was  frightened,  and  denied  my  accusation  ;  but 
her  denials  confirmed  my  suspicions,  and  at  last  I  forced 
from  her  the  whole  disgraceful  truth.  It  wasn't  over  an 
hour  ago.  I  came  here  immediately.  And  that.  Miss 
Shirley,  is  the  whole  story." 

He  drew  a  long  breath,  and  looked  rather  anxious. 
She  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

"  Miss  Shirley  I  " 

"I  am  listening." 

"  I  have  told  you  all.     What  is  to  be  done  now  ?  " 

"You  are  to  go  and  leav  me." 

He  rose  up  and  walked  to  the  door. 

"Yes,  Miss  Shirley;  but  I  will  remain  here.  Lady 
Agnes  and  Colonel  Shirley  must  know  all  to-night." 

He  opened  the  door  and  passed  out.  The  hall,  in  a 
blaze  of  light,  was  deserted  ;  but  he  heard  the  murmur 
of  voices  from  the  room  opposite  and  from  below. 

"Yes,"  he  murmured  to  himself;  "yes,  my  dear  Bar- 
bara, thanks  to  you,  it  is  all  mine  at  last" 


e— one  m 

the  other 
le.  But  I, 
d  her,  and 
ay  or  two 
:  your  par- 
lay droop- 
she  might 
exhibited, 
red  as  she 
voice  was 
rd  pain. 
3n. 

u — excuse 
;how  itsejf 
f  the  first 
ter,  whom 
r  schemes 
e  dropped 

them  up, 
sed  her  of 
ition  ;  but 
5t  I  forced 

:  over  an 

hat,  Miss 

anxious. 


)W?" 


re.    Lady 
ht. " 

hall,  in  a 
5  murmur 
w. 
dear  Bar- 


iVEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


343 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

DIAMOND   CUT   DIAMOND. 

Thb  interview  between  the  lav/yer  and  the  bride- 
elect  had  not  lasted  over  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  but,  as  he 
stood  in  the  hall,  he  felt  that  a  strange  and  ominous  si- 
lence seemed  to  have  fallen  over  the  house.  As  he  was 
about  to  descend,  the  door  of  the  Rose  Room  opened, 
and  the  pale  and  haughty  face  of  Lady  Agnes  looked 
out. 

"Is  your  conference  over? "  she  asked. 

"It  is  over,  my  lady." 

"And  where  is  my  granddaughter?  ** 

"  In  the  drawing-room,  my  lady." 

"Why  does  she  not  come  out  ? " 

"She — she — I  am  afraid  she  is  not  quite  well,  my 
lady." 

"Not  well !  "  exclaimed  Lady  Agnes,  fixing  her  pierc- 
ing eyes  in  stern  suspicion  on  him.  "Not  well  I  What 
have  you  been  saying  to  her,  then  ?  " 

"  My  lady,  pardon  me ;  but  I  think  you  had  better  go 
to  Miss  Shirley  directly." 

"Very  well,  sir.  And  you  will  have  the  goodness  to 
stay  where  you  are  until  this  mysterious  matter  is  cleared 
up." 

She  swept  proudly  past  him  with  a  majestic  rustle  of 
her  silk  skirts,  and  opened  the  door  of  the  v/inter  drawing- 
room.  But  she  paused  on  the  threshold  with  a  shrill 
shriek — such  a  shriek  as  made  Mr.  Sweet  turn  ashy  white, 
terrified  the  guests  below,  and  made  her  son  come  from 
the  lower  hall,  in  half  a  dozen  fleet  bounds,  to  her  side. 

Vivia  had  fallen  to  the  floor,  not  quite  prostrate,  but 
her  hands  grasping  the  arm  of  the  chair,  her  head  on 
them,  and  her  whole  attitude  unnatural  and  distorted.  It 
was  a  strange  sight — the  glowing  room  filled  with  amber 
light,  all  gold  and  fire ;  the  slender  shape  in  its  floating 
robes,  misty  vail,  and  sparkling  bridal  wreath,  crouching 


It 


'^  t; 


1*    ^■ 

i   .! 


iJ 


'  M 


244 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


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1.1 


!  I 


^) 


'M-lj. 


down  in  that  strained,  writhing  position — its  profusion  of 
long  ringlets  sweeping  the  crimson  carpet. 

"  The  child  has  fainted  !  "  screamed  Lady  Agnes,  **  or 
that  wretch  has  killed  her  !  " 

"  Vivia,  my  darling  !  "  cried  her  father,  flying  in  and 
lifting  her  in  his  arms.  "  Vivia,  my  child,  what  is  the 
matter  ?  " 

Lady  Agnes  was  wrong  ;  she  had  not  fainted.  Her 
eyes  were  wide  open,  staring  straight  before  her  with  a 
fixed,  unnatural  look  ;  her  face  was  quite  ghastly ;  but 
she  made  a  feeble  motion  when  raised,  as  if  struggling  to 
get  away. 

"  Vivia,  for  Heaven's  sake  do  not  look  so  !  Vivia, 
dearest,  do  you  not  know  me?" 

The  glazed  and  fixed  intensity  slowly  left  her  eyes,  and 
they  came  back  to  his  face  with  a  look  of  unutterable 
love. 

"  Dear  papa  !  " 

"My  darling,  what  is  this.?  What  ails  you?"  he 
asked,  pushing  back  the  curls  from  the  pale  brow,  and 
touching  it  tenderly  with  his  lips. 

"Oh,  papa,  don  t !  "  she  cried,  in  a  voice  so  full  of 
sharp  pain  that  he  scarcely  knew  it ;  and  again  the  feeble 
struggle  to  rise  from  his  arms  commenced. 

Wondering  exceedingly,  he  lifted  and  placed  her  in  a 
chair,  just  as  Jeannette  rushed  in  with  smelling-salts,  and 
Lady  Agnes  held  a  handkerchief  steeped  in  cologne  to 
her  temples.  A  crowd  had  collected  by  this  time  in  the 
doorway,  and  seeing  them,  and  revived  by  stimulants, 
she  rose  up. 

"Papa!  Grandmamma!  take  me  away  I  Where  is 
Mr.  Sweet?" 

"  Here,  Miss  Shirley,"  said  that  gentleman,  presenting 
himself  promptly,  with  a  very  pale  and  startled  face. 

The  well-bred  crowd  in  the  doorway,  seeing  by  this 
time  they  were  out  of  place,  hurried  immediately  down- 
stairs, and  no  one  remained  in  the  drawing-room  except 
Vivia,  her  father  and  grandmother,  and  Mr.  Sweet. 

"  I  knew  no  good  would  come  of  this  outrageous  inter- 
view ! "  exclaimed  Lady  Agnes,  flashing  a  look  on  her 
agent  that  might  have  scorched  him,  so  fierce  was  its 
fire;  "but  I  scarcely  thought  it  would  end  like  this. 
What  have  you  been  saying  to  her,  sir  ?    Out  with  it  at 


'i^t^ll!      I 


Lv'U' 


refusion  of 

gnes,  "or 

ng  in  and 
hat  is  the 

ited.  Her 
her  with  a 
astly  ;  but 
■uggling  to 

0  !     Vivia, 

r  eyes,  and 
inutterable 


you  ? "  he 
brow,  and 

so  full  of 
the  feeble 

d  her  in  a 
-salts,  and 
olopfne  to 

ime  in  the 
timulants, 

Where   is 

presenting 
I  face, 
ig  by  this 
ely  down- 
cm  except 
eet. 

30US  inter- 
3k  on  her 
:e  was  its 

like   this. 

with  it  at 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


245 


\ 


* 


i 


^nce,  and  no  more  fooling,  or  I  will  have  vou  thrust  out 
within  the  next  five  minutes  i  " 

"My  lady "  hurriedly  began  Mr.  Sweet. 

But  Vivia  started  up,  all  her  strength  recovered — more 
than  her  usual  strength  for  that  matter.  In  the  height  of 
her  pride  and  power,  she  had  been  beaten  to  the  dust  ; 
but  in  her  last  effort,  she  reared  herself  higher  and  prouder 
than  ever  before  in  her  life. 

"  Grandmamma,  it  is  useless  to  talk  to  him  like  this.  I 
have  heard  nothing  but  what  I  should  have  heard  before 
■ — what  he  should  have  told  us  all  long  ago  !" 

"  Miss  Shirley,  you  forget " 

"  I  forget  nothing,  Mr.  Sweet.  In  spite  of  all  that  you 
have  said,  I  am  convinced  you  have  known  the  matter 
all  along,  and  have  been  silent  for  your  own  ends.  Those 
ends  are  not  very  difficult  to  see,  and  you  have  accom- 
plished them." 

"But,  my  dear  Vivia,  what  are  you  talking  about.'*" 
said  her  father,  looking  to  the  last  degree  puzzled.  ' '  What 
does  this  all  mean  .?  " 

"  It  means  that  I  am  not  Vivia  ! — that  I  have  never  had 
a  right  to  that  name  ;  that  for  twelve  years  I  have  been  a 
usurper ;  that,  in  short,  twelve  years  ago  you  were  de- 
ceived, and  I  am  no  daughter  of  yours  !  " 

The  same  unnatural  look  that  had  been  in  her  eyes  be- 
fore came  back,  and  jarred  in  her  tone,  whose  very  calm- 
ness and  steadiness  were  unnatural,  too.  For  the  time 
being,  quiet  as  she  seemed,  she  was  quite  beside  herself, 
or,  as  the  French  say,  out  of  herself,  and  could  no  more 
have  shed  a  tear,  or  uttered  a  cry,  or  made  a  scene,  than 
she  could  have  sunk  down  at  their  feet  and  died.  She 
was  not  even  conscious  of  sorrow  at  the  revelation  ;  every 
nerve  seemed  numb,  every  feeling  callous,  her  very  heart 
dead.  She  only  felt  there  was  a  dull,  heavy  pain  aching 
there  ;  but  the  swiftness  and  keenness  of  the  stroke  dead- 
ened every  other  feeling.  She  stood  before  them,  a  daz- 
zling figure,  and  calm  as  if  made  of  marble  ;  her  eyes, 
wildly  bright,  alone  betokening  momentary  insanity. 
Lady  Agnes  and  the  colonel  looked  at  her  as  if  they 
thought  she  had  really  gone  insane. 

"Vivia,  what  are  you  talking  about.?  I  don't  under- 
stand." 

"It  is  plain,  nevertheless  ;  and  sudden  and  quite  unex- 


'.ii 


ni 


1 


I 


I     I 


iij 


0'\m 


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i. 

I! 


Il 


It' 


ir 


..'i 


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i 


j.'^' 


■^^ 


M 


S46 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


pected  as  it  is,  I  believe  it  all.  It  comes  back  to  me  now, 
what  I  had  almost  forgotten  before,  that  Barbara  was  my 
name  long,  long  ago,  and  that  she  was  Victoria  I  Oh  I 
know  it  is  true  !     I  feel  it  in  my  heart !  " 

The  colonel  turned  in  desperation  to  the  lawyer. 

"Sweet,  will  you  explain  this?  I  do  not  comprehend 
9  word  of  what  she  is  saying." 

"Colonel  Shirley  I  am  sorry — am  very  sorry  ;  but  it  is 
out  of  my  power  to  help  you.  The  young  lady  speaks  the 
truth.  Twelve  years  ago  you  were  deceived,  and  she  is 
not  your  daughter." 

"  Not  my  daughter !  " 

"  No,  colonel.  Can  you  remember  twelve  years  back, 
when  you  came  from  India  and  received  her  ?  " 

'*  Certainly,  I  remember.     But  what  of  it  ? " 

"It  was  not  the  person  you  intrusted  her  to  that  gave 
her  to  you  back,  but  an  old  woman — was  it  not  ?  " 

"Yes." 

**  Do  you  recollect  what  she  looked  like  ? " 

"Recollect!  No  ;  I  did  not  pay  so  much  attention  to 
her  as  that.     What  the  deuce  are  you  driving  at,  man  ?  " 

"Only  that  you  have  seen  her  since.  She  lives  in 
Lower  Cliffe.  She  is  Black,  the  fisherman's  mother — she 
is  old  Judith  I  " 

"  By  Jove  !  "  cried  the  colonel,  his  face  lighting  up  with 
sudden  intelligence.  "  I  believe  you  are  right.  That 
woman's  face  puzzled  me  when  I  saw  it.  I  was  sure  I  had 
seen  it  some  place  before,  but  could  not  tell  where.  It  is 
all  plain  now.  And  it  puzzled  me  the  more,  as  she  always 
seemed  dreading  to  look  or  speak  to  me." 

"She  had  reason  to  dread  you.  By  her  you  have  been 
most  grossly  and  basely  deceived." 

"How?" 

"The  child  she  gave  you  twelve  years  ago  was  not 
yours,  but  her  own  granddaughter.  This  young  lady  is 
not  your  child  1  " 

"What!"  exclained  the  colonel,  starting  forward  and 
turning  very  pale.  "You  villain  !  what  are  you  daring 
to  say  ? " 

"The  truth,  Colonel  Shirley,  told  by  her  own  lips." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say— do  you  dare  to  say  that  Vivia 
is  not  my  daughter  ? " 

"Ida" 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


«47 


I  have  been 


Colone'  Shirley  stopped  and  looked  at  him,  mute  with 
consternation.  The  lawyer  stood  before  him  very  pale, 
but  meeting  his  eye  without  quailing — sincerity  and  sym- 
pathy on  every  feature. 

"I  know  you  are  stunned  by  the  suddenness  of  the 
shock,  sir.  I  know  it  is  hard  to  believe  it  at  first,  but  it  is 
Heaven's  truth,  for  all  that.     If  you  will  only  listen  to  me 

five  minutes,  I  will  tell  you  all  I  have  told  to "  a  pause 

— "  to  this  young  lady." 

"Go  on." 

Mr.  Sweet  went  on  accordingly.  The  story  was  listened 
to  with  profoundest  silence,  and  a  long  and  ominous  pause 
followed,  passionately  broken  at  last  by  Lady  Agnes. 

"  It  is  a  lie  from  beginning  to  end  !  I  will  never  believe 
a  word  of  it !  The  man  has  fabricated  the  whole  thing  him- 
self, for  the  purpose  of  forcing  his  own  miserable  wife  up- 
on us  !  Cliffe,  if  you  do  right,  you  will  make  the  servants 
kick  him  out !  " 

*  *  I  will  spare  your  servants  that  trouble,  Lady  Agnes," 
said  Mr.  Sweet,  whose  face  was  perfectly  colorless,  as  he 
moved  toward  the  door  ;  * '  but  no  amount  of  kicking  can 
alter  the  truth,  and  justice  must  be  had,  though  the 
heavens  fall !  " 

"Stop,"  cried  Colonel  Shirley,  in  a  voice  that  made  the 
room  ring.  "Come  back  !  What  proof  can  you  give  of 
the  truth  of  all  this,  beyond  that  of  your  word,  and  that  of 
this  old  woman,  whom  you  may  easily  have  iDullied  into 
the  plot  ? " 

*  *  The  old  woman  is  ready  to  depose  to  the  facts,  on  oath ; 
and  you  can  visit  the  daughter,  if  you  choose,  in  her 
madhouse,  where  she  raves  incessantly  of  her  lost  child, 
and  tells  the  story  to  every  one  who  visits  her.  Consider, 
too,  the  probabilities.  What  more  natural  than  that  this 
wretched  woman  should,  with  her  own  granddaughter,  be 
placed  in  affluence,  when  she  had  it  in  her  power.  It  is 
not  the  first  time  the  same  thing  has  been  done,  and  the 
young  lady  herself  believes  it." 

Colonel  Shirley  turned  to  her ;  she  was  standing  as 
before.  She  had  not  moved  once,  but  her  eye  had  rest- 
lessly wandered  from  face  to  face  of  the  speakers.  "  Oh, 
Vivia,  can  you  believe  it  ? " 

"I  believe  it  all,"  she  said,  quite  calmly.  **I  can  re- 
member it  with  perfect  distinctness  now.     I  could  remem* 


\ 


Mi 


248 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


''It       i       '*' 


ber  it  all  along,  like  a  dim  dream,  that  long  ago  I  was 
called  Barbara,  and  that  I  played  with  another  child  who 
was  Victoria.     I  believe  it,  every  word." 

"Another  thing,  Colonel  Shiriey,"  said  Mr.  Sweet, 
emboldened  ;  '*  this  young  lady  has  been  said  to  resemble 
your  family  very  much,  because  she  is  a  blonde,  and  so 
are  all  your  race.  But  Barbara  is  the  living  image  oi  your 
dead  wife.  I  remember  her  well.  Here  is  her  p(  rtrait ; 
look  at  it  for  yourself. " 

He  drew  a  miniature  out  of  his  pocket,  and  placed  it 
lespectfally  in  the  Indian  officer's  hand.  li.  was  a  likeness 
of  Barbara,  painted  on  ivory  v/hile  she  was  in  London, 
and  strikingly  like  her.  Vivia,  at  the  same  instant,  drew 
from  her  neck  the  gold  chain  to  which  the  portrait  the 
Colonel  had  given  her  was  attached,  and  placed  it  in  his 
other  hand.  Strange  and  striking,  indeed,  was  the  resem- 
blance ;  the  same  oval  contour  of  face,  with  the  deep 
bloom  on  the  cheeks  ;  the  same  profusion  of  dark  waving 
hair  swept  back  from  ihe  broad  brow  ;  the  same  large, 
uplifted  eyes,  clear  and  bright ;  the  same  characteristic 
mouth  and  chin  ;  the  most  striking  difference  being  the 
expression.  Barbara  looked  far  colder,  and  sterner,  and 
prouder  than  the  other. 

Those  faces  settled  the  matter.  The  colonel  was  con- 
vinced, and  his  face  seemed  changed  to  marble,  ere  he 
looked  up. 

"The  night  you  gave  me  this,  papa,"  said  Vivia,  calling 
him  the  old  familiar  name,  "I  told  you  they  were  alike, 
and  you  said  it  was  a  chance  resemblance.  It  was  no 
chance  resemblance,  >  ou  see  now  !  " 

"  I  see.     But  oh,  Vivia " 

He  leaned  against  a  tall  ebony  cabinet,  and  covered  his 
eyes  with  his  hand.  Lady  Agnes,  v/ho  had  been  standing 
in  dumb  bewilderment  all  the  time,  broke  out  n»»w  with  a 
wild  cry  : 

'  *  Cliffe  !  Cliffe  !  Thi.i  cannot  be  true  ?  You  cannot 
believe  it !" 

"Mother,  I  do  !" 

"  Dear,  dear  grandmamma  !  "  exclaimed  Vivia,  springing 
forward  and  catching  her  hand,  tCirified  at  her  changing 
face,  "I  will  always Oh,  papa,  co^Tie  here  !  " 

For  Lady  Agnes,  with  a  gasping  ciy,  had  fallen  back 
quite  senseless.     Her  con  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and  Mr. 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


2  49 


Du    cannot 


Sweet  violently  rangf  the  bell.  Jeannette  and  Hortcnse 
were  there  in  a  moment.  Colonel  Shirley  carried  her  to 
her  room,  and  was  back  lirectly. 

*'  Well,  sir  !  "  he  said  t(   Mr.  Sweet,  '*  and  what  now  ?  " 

The  lawyer  looked  really  distressed  and  at  a  loss,  but 
Vivia  came  to  the  rescue  at  once. 

"The  first  thing  to  be  done  is  to  go  to  Lower  Cliffe 
immediately,  and  see  this  woman.  I  can  never  rest  now 
until  the  whole  matter  is  settled.  If  you  will  wait  for  me, 
I  wil!  be  ready  to  go  with  you  in  five  minutes." 

The  colonel  took  both  her  hands  in  his,  and  looked 
down  pityingly  and  tenderly  into  the  death-white  face. 

"  You  go,  Vivia!     You  look  fit  to  die  this  moment." 

"I  am  not  going  to  die.  I  never  was  so  strong  before 
in  vn-^  life.  Don't  say  a  word,  papa  ;  it  is  of  no  use.  I 
will  not  keep  you  five  minutes." 

She  disappeared  in  the  Rose  Room  ;  and  both  gentlemen 
looked  after  her,  more  astonished  by  the  sudden  and  com- 
plete change  the  girl's  whole  nature  seemed  to  have  under- 
gone within  the  hour,  than  by  anything  that  had  happened 
that  night.  True  to  her  word,  she  was  back  in  an  incred- 
ibly short  space  of  time,  the  bridal-dress  doffed,  and  ar- 
rayed in  mantle  and  hat.  Again  objections  were  upon 
the  Colonel's  lips,  but  they  died  out  at  the  sight  of  the 
pale,  resolute  face. 

"We  must  go  out  this  way,"  she  said.  "  It  will  never 
GO  to  go  downstairs  and  pass  all  these  people." 

She  led  the  way  to  another  flight  of  staiis  at  the  opposite 
end  of  the  hall,  and  the  three  went  down,  and  out  of  one  of 
the  side-doors,  into  the  shrubbery.  The  bells  had  ceased 
to  ring  ;  but  the  fireworks  were  still  blazing,  the  music  still 
clanging  ;  the  people  still  dancing  and  feasting — the  whole 
park  like  a  glimpce  of  fairyland. 

What  a  bitter  satire  it  all  was  !  and  the  keenest  pang 
the  colonel  had  yet  felt,  wrung  his  heart  as  he  drew 
Vivia's  arm  within  his  own,  and  hurried,  by  sundry  by- 
paths, to  the  village.  Not  one  word  was  spoken  on  the 
way.  They  hastened  along,  and  soon  came  in  sight  of 
the  cottage.     A  light  shone  from  the  windows. 

The  lawyer,  without  hesitation,  opened  the  door  and 
walked  in  followed  by  his  two  companions. 

Old  Judith,  cowering  and  shivering,  was  in  her  usual 
seat.      A   tallow  canaie,   in    a    dirty    brass   candlestick, 


'    I  > 


450 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


Iv,' 


'h! 


.?i 


'i        T 


P  ■ 


flared,  and  glittered,  and  dripped  big  tears  of  fat  all  over 
it.  No  one  else  was  present.  At  sight  of  them  she 
shrank  away,  holding  out  her  arms,  with  a  piteous  cry. 

"Don't  lake  me  away  !  Don't  send  me  to  prison  !  I 
confess  it  all — all — all ! " 

"What  have  you  to  confess  ?"  asked  Colonel  Shirley, 
standing  sternly  before  her. 

"I  changed  them,  I  did  !  I  changed  them,  I  did  ;  but 
I  never  meant  no  harm  !  Oh,  good  gentlemen,  have 
mercy  1  I'm  an  old  woman  now,  and  don't  send  me  to 
prison  ! " 

Vivia  bent  over  her,  with  a  face  like  that  of  an  angel. 

"You  shall  not  be  sent  to  prison.    No  one  will  harm  you, 
if  you  speak  the  tjuth.     Am  I  your  granddaughter  ?  " 

But  the  sound  of  the  sweet  voice,  the  sight  of  the  lovely 
face,  and  the  earnest  question,  seemed  to  act  worse  than 
all  on  old  Judith  ;  for  she  sprang  up  and  fled  into  the  far- 
thest corner  of  the  room,  as  she  had  done  once  before,  long 
ago,  at  sight  of  Mr.  Sweet,  holding  out  her  arms  in  a  sort 
of  horror. 

' '  Speak,  woman  !  "  cried  the  colonel,  striding  forward. 
"Speak  at  once,  and  tell  me  if  you  gave  me  your  grand- 
daughter, twelve  years  ago,  and  kept  my  child  ?  " 

"  Papa,  papa,  she  is  in  a  fit ! ''  exclaimed  Vivia,  in  terror. 

It  was  true.  Whether  from  fear  or  some  other  cause, 
the  wretched  woman  had  fallen  back  in  a  fit  of  paralysis, 
her  features  blackened  and  convulsed,  the  foam  oozing 
from  her  lips — a  horrible  sight  to  look  on.  Of  all  tiie 
terrible  changes  of  that  fatal  bridal  night,  there  was  noth- 
ing to  equal  this  ;  and  Vivia  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands,  and  turned  away,  shuddering,  from  the  revolting 
spectacle. 

"  If  you'll  have  the  ki  dness  to  knock  at  the  cottage 
next  door,"  said  Mr.  Sweet,  who  had  sprung  forward  and 
lifted  her  up,  "  I  will  place  her  on  the  bed,  and  send  a 
message  for  the  doctor. " 

The  colonel  obeyed,  ouite  horror-stricken,  and  the 
women  from  the  next  hou^e  came  flocking  in.  A  man 
was  sent  in  hot  haste  to  Cliftonlea  for  a  doctor,  and  Mr. 
Sweet  consigned  old  Judith  to  their  care. 

"  Do  any  of  you  know  where  her  son  is  ? "  he  asked. 

One  of  the  women  did ;  and,  with  numberless  cour- 
tesies to  her  master  and  nor  young  lady,  told  how  a 


-I! 


''fi; 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


251 


couple  of  hours  before,  he  had  entered  the  cottage,  and 
after  staying  for  some  ten  minutes,  had  left  it  again  in 
haste,  and  taken  the  road  for  the  town.  Then,  as  they 
could  do  no  more,  the  two  left,  and  paused  for  a  moment 
in  the  moonlight. 

"Nothing  more  can  be  done  to-night,"  remarked  Mr. 
Sweet,  addressing  the  colonel  ;  "  and,  with  your  permis- 
sion, I  will  return  home." 

"As  you  please  ;  but  I  shall  expect  you  very  early-to 
morrow,  and — your  wife  also.  Now  that  we  have  com- 
menced, this  matter  must  be  investigated  to  the  bottom." 

Raising  his  hat  coldly  and  haughtily,  the  colonel  turned 
away,  and  Mr.  Sweet  hurried  off  r.ipidly  toward  his  own 
home.  It  was  late  when  he  reached  it — the  cathedral 
clock  was  striking  eleven.  Most  of  the  houses  were 
silent  and  dark  ;  but  a  light  burned  in  his,  and  his  knock 
at  the  door  was  promply  answered. 

Elizabeth  looked  rather  startled  ;  but  he  did  not  notice 
that,  and  hurried  at  once  into  the  parlor,  where  his  wife 
usually  sat,  up  to  all  hours.  She  was  not  there  to-night. 
And  he  ran  up  to  her  room.  She  was  not  there,  either, 
but  something  else  was — something  that  made  Mr.  Sweet 
pause  on  the  threshold,  as  if  a  hand  of  iron  had  thrust 
him  back. 

Over  the  bed,  over  the  floor,  over  the  table,  clear  in  the 
moonlight,  lay  all  the  gifts  he  had  ever  given  her,  before 
and  after  their  marriage.  Something  gleamed  at  his  feet. 
He  stooped  and  picked  it  up.  A  broken  ring — broken 
into  three  or  four  pieces — but  he  knew  it  at  once.  It  was 
his  wife's  wedding-ring,  broken  and  trodden  in  the  dust, 
like  the  vows  she  had  plighted — vows  that  were  brittle  as 
glass — slippery  withes,  that  she  had  snapped  like  hairs, 
and  trampled  under  h^^r  feet,  as  she  had  trampled  the  ring 
that  bound  them. 

He  saw  all  in  an  instant ;  and  in  that  instant  his  face 
altered  so  frightfully,  that  no  one  would  have  known  it. 

He  tore  down  the  stairs,  livid  with  fear  and  fury  to 
find  himself  baffled  in  the  very  hour  of  triumph,  and 
clutched  Elizabeth  by  the  arm  in  a  terrible  grip. 

"  Where  is  your  mistress?"  he  cried,  furiously. 

"Please,  sir,  she  is  gone!"  cried  the  terrified  hand- 
maid. 

"  Gone  !  Gone  where }     Speak,  or  I'll  strangle  you  I " 


I'l   I 


I'Vi: 


I 


352 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


"  Please,  sir,  I  don't  know.  The  gentleman  went  away  ; 
and  the  next  1  saw,  she  went  out  the  back  way  in  her 
bonnet  and  shawl  ;  and  it  was  dark,  and  I  couldn't  see 
where  she  went." 

"  Who  was  the  gentleman  ?  Who  was  he  ?  "  Mr.  Sweet 
almost  screamed,  shaking  the  girl  until  she  writhed  in  his 
grasp. 

"  Please,  sir,  it  was  young  Mr.  Cliffe.  Oh,  Lor'  let  go 
my  arm  1  " 

Mr.  Sweet  clapped  on  his  hat,  and  rushed  out  like  a 
madman.  Through  the  streets  he  tore,  knocking  down 
everything  and  everybody  that  came  in  his  way.  He 
fled  through  Lower  Cliffe,  through  the  park  gates,  up  the 
avenue,  and  into  the  house.  Everybody  ran  screaming 
before  him  ;  but  he  rushed  on  until  he  found  himself  in 
the  presence  of  Sir  Roland  Cliffe,  Colonel  Shirley,  and  the 
crowd  of  unknown  ladies  and  gentlemen. 

"  She  is  gone  !  she  i  ^  gone  I  "  he  screamed,  frantically. 
"They  have  both  gone  together.  My  wife  has  eloped 
with  Leicester  Cli^*^  I  " 


1^ 


'I 


■isi 


l-ii 


i 


CHAPTER  XXVn. 

WHAT    LAY   ON    THE    NUN's    GRAVE. 

Within  the  memory  of  the  oldest  inhabitant,  that 
pleasant-spoken  gentleman,  the  agent  of  Lady  Agnes 
Shirley,  had  never  been  known  to  be  otherwise  than  per- 
fectly self-possessed  and  equal  to  any  emergency.  '^I'he 
said  legal  gentleman  had  imagined  himself  thai  nothing 
earthly  could  have  moved  his  admirable  sang /roid  ;  but, 
on  the  present  occasion,  both  he  and  the  oldest  inhabitant 
found  their  mistake.  Ever  afterward,  he  had  a  very 
vague  and  indistinct  idea  of  what  followed  his  startling 
announcement. 

He  had  a  dim  recollection  of  a  sense  of  suffocatior:  ;  of 
a  roaring  sound  in  his  ears  ;  of  being  the  center  of  a  surg- 
ing sea  of  white  and  terrified  faces  ;  of  hearing  cries  and 
exclamations ;  and,  deep,  and  high  over  all,  the  clear, 
authoritative  voice  of  Colonel  Shirley,  giving  some  orders, 


n 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


253 


Then  he  felt  himself  carried  away  and  laid  on  a  bed  ; 
felt  mistily  that  some  one  was  bleeding  him,  and  some 
one  else  holding  ice  to  his  hot  head  ;  of  being  relieved 
from  the  unpleasant  sense  of  strangulation,  and  at  last  of 
gradually  dropping  off  into  a  profound  and  dreamless 
sleep. 

As  he  was  left  alone  in  his  distant  room  to  sleep  the 
slcej)  of  the  just,  he  knew  nothing  of  what  was  going 
on  in  the  other  parts  of  the  great  mansion — how  Sir 
Roland  Cliffe  had  dropped  down  in  a  fit  of  apoplexy,  and 
been  borne  away  to  another  chamber,  a  dreadful  sight ; 
how  the  guests  had  all  dispersed  in  consternation  and 
dismay  ;  how  the  news  had  flown  like  wildfire  through 
the  town  ;  how  the  lights  had  been  put  out,  the  tenantry 
sent  home  all  agape,  Castle  Cliffe  shut  up  in  silence  and 
darkness,  and  the  crowd  of  servants — an  hour  before  so 
busy  and  bustling — grouped  together  in  the  lower  regions, 
talking  in  hushed  and  awe-struck  whispers,  and  never 
thinking  of  bed.  How  Colonel  Shirley  was  pacing  rest- 
lessly up  and  down  the  lower  hall,  and  unable  to  stop  for 
one  instant ;  how  the  head  doctor  of  the  town  was  flying 
incessantly  from  Sir  Roland  to  Lady  Agnes  ;  and  how 
she  who  should  have  felt  it  all  the  most,  was  the  calmest 
and  most  collected  person  in  the  house. 

In  a  simple  morning-wrapper,  all  her  bright  curls 
gathered  up  and  confined  in  a  net,  Vivia  bent  over  Lady 
Agnes,  very  pale,  very  quiet,  very  calm,  obeying  all  the 
doctor's  directions  implicitly  ;  and  when  at  last  that  lady 
consented  to  come  out  of  her  hysterics,  swallowed  an 
opiate,  and  fell  asleep,  the  ex-bride  left  her  to  the  care  of 
a  nurse,  and  went  away  to  her  own  room — her  own  pretty 
Rose  Room — wherein  she  had  so  often  slept  tlic  innocent 
sleep  of  careless  girlhood — tliat  she  never,  never  could 
sleep  more.  Over  the  mantel,  looked  down  on  her  still 
the  sweet,  majestic  face,  encircled  by  the  golden  halo  ;  and 
Vivia  dropped  down  before  it,  her  face  hidden  in  her 
hands,  and  prayed  as  only  those  pray  who  see  the  whole 
world  darkening  around  them,  and  no  light  but  the  light 
of  Heaven.  Long  ago,  when  a  little  child,  she  had  knelt 
before  the  great  altar  in  her  dear  old  convent  in  sunny 
France,  anH  mt  lyed  as  she  was  doing  now,  and  "Oh  !  " 
cried  Vivia's  ricart,  "  if  I  had  only  died  then  !  " 

And  Mr.  Sweet,  sleeping  serenely,  as  all  good  men 


Ji' 


tlil 


1 

i 

1 

!     i;    " 

1       .    ,  ' 

,tj 

aS4 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


should  do,  knew  nothing  of  all  this,  and  never  woke  until 
the  summer  sunbeams  were  glancing  in  through  the  cur- 
tains. Then  he  awoke  with  a  jerk  from  some  unpleasant 
dream,  and  rose  slowly  up  on  his  elbow,  a  little  confused 
and  bewildered  still.  His  right  arm  felt  stift  and  sore, 
ana  looking  down,  he  saw  it  was  bandaged,  and  the 
bandage  stained  with  blood.  That  recalled  the  bleeding, 
and  the  bleeding  recalled  the  rest ;  and  feeling  his  head  a 
little  hot  and  giddy  still,  he  got  out  of  bed  tilled  a  basin 
with  cold  water,  and  plunged  his  cranium  into  it.  This 
cooling  process  had  the  desired  effect.  Having  mopped 
his  yellow  hair  dry  with  a  towel,  he  felt  he  was  his  own 
collected,  clear-headed  self  again,  and  sat  down  on  the 
edge  of  the  bed  to  dress  himself  slowly,  and  think  over 
all  that  had  happened. 

To  sleep  over  a  matter  sometimes  changes  its  com- 
plexion very  materially,  and  Mr.  Sweet's  first  idea  was 
one  of  wonder,  how  he  ever  could  have  been  such  a 
ninny  as  to  be  overcome  for  a  m.oment  by  the  little  affair 
of  last  night.  It  was  true  all  the  plans  he  had  been  form- 
ing and  cherishing  so  long  were  knocked  in  the  head  at 
one  blow  ;  but  he  could  still  form  new  plans,  and  no- 
body knew  better  than  he  that  all  is  not  lost  that  is  in 
danger. 

His  wife,  Colonel  Shirley's  daughter  and  heiress,  had 
eloped,  to  be  sure,  but  there  was  yet  a  possibility  that  she 
might  be  found  again  and  reclaimed  ;  and,  for  his  part, 
he  was  a  sufficiently  good  Christian  to  overlook  the  little 
episode  and  take  her  back  again,  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. Even  should  she  refuse  to  come  back — it  would 
be  just  like  Barbara  to  do  it — that  did  not  alter  in  the  least 
the  facts  of  the  case  ;  jhe  was  none  the  less  his  wife  and 
the  heiress  of  Castle  Cliffe.  The  only  thing  he  blamed 
himself  for  was,  not  having  told  her  all  beforehand.  It 
might  have  prevented  this  disagreeable  corJretemps.  But 
it  wa«  tOo  late,  now,  and 

"  Here  Mr.  Sweet's  meditations  was  cut  short  by  a  rap 
at  the  door, 

"Come  in,"  he  called,  and  Hurst,  Colonel  Shirlcjy's 
valet,  came  in  accordingly. 

"Ah,  good-morning,  Hurst,"  said  Mr.  Sweet,  blandly, 
hastily  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  his  toilet. 

Mr.  Hurst  bowed  respectfully. 


\ 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


iroke  until 
h  the  cur- 
npleasant 
!  confused 

and  sore, 
,   and  the 

bleeding, 
bis  head  a 
ed  a  basin 

it.  This 
g  mopped 
lS  hib  own 
vn  on  the 
hink  over 

5  its  corn- 
idea  was 
!en  such  a 
little  affair 
3een  form- 
ic head  at 
;,  and  no- 
that  is  in 


«5S 


y 


k 


iress,  had 

that  she 

his  part, 

the  little 

had  hap- 

-it  would 

n  the  least 

wife  and 

le  blamed 

^hand.     It 

mps.     But 

t  by  a  rap 

1  Shirlvjy's 

t,  blandly. 
It. 


"Good-morning,  sir.  How  do  you  find  yourself  this 
morning?" 

"Much  better,  thank  you — quite  well,  I  may  say." 

"Then  my  master  sends  his  compliments,  and  begs 
you  will  come  to  him  immediately." 

Mr.  Sweet,  being  quite  as  anxious  to  see  the  colonel  as 
that  gentleman  could  possibly  be  to  see  him,  needed  no 
second  invitation,  and  followed  the  valet  with  alacrity 
through  various  halls,  downstairs,  and  into  the  morning- 
room. 

Colonel  Shirley  was  there,  dressed  as  on  the  preceding 
evening,  walking  restlessly  up  and  down  still,  and  look- 
ing very  pale,  very  stern.  He  stopped  and  glanced 
searchingly  at  the  lawyer's  melancholy  face. 

"  Are  you  better.?  "  he  asked,  briefly. 

"Quite  recovered,  thank  you.  I  scarcely  know  yet 
how  it  happened,  or  what  was  the  matter  with  me." 

"A  rush  of  blood  to  the  head,  or  something  that  way. 
I  hope  you  remember  the  extraordinary  announcement 
you  came  rushing  here  with,  just  as  you  were  taken  }  " 

Mr.  Sweet  raised  a  pair  of  reproachful  eyes. 

"It  would  be  still  more  extraordinary,  Colonel,  if  I 
could  ever  forget  it.  When  a  man's  wife  elopes,  it  is  not 
likely  to  slip  from  his  memory  in  a  single  night." 

"It  .     /aite  true,  then.?" 

"Entirely." 

"And  Barbara  has  fled?" 

* '  She  has. " 

"And  with  Leicester  Cliffe  ?  " 

Mr.  Sweet  put  his  handkerchief  to  his  eyes,  and  turned 
away  to  conceal  his  emotion. 

* '  How  did  you  discover  it .?  What  proof  have  you  of 
it .?"  continued  the  colonel,  rapidly  casting  a  somewhat 
cynical  eye  on  his  bereaved  companion. 

"  There  can  be  no  doubt  of  the  fact.  Colonel,"  said  the 
lawyer,  in  a  tremulous  tone.  "1  wisli  to  Heaven  there 
was  !  My  wife  has  fled  !  and  Leicester  Cliffe  is  a  traitor 
and  a  villain  !  " 

"  Be  good  enough,  sir,  to  keep  to  the  point.  What  proof 
have  you  of  what  you  say.?  " 

"  Colonel,  last  night,  when  I  went  home,  my  servant — 
we  keep  only  one — met  me  at  the  door,  and  told  me  her 
mistress  had  left  the  house  and  had  not  returned :  that 


2s6 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


] 


^^^ 


:il!>.l 


li;; 


Mr.  Leicester  Cliffe  had  been  there  with  her  all  the  even", 
ing,  and  that  his  departure  had  preceded  hers  but  a  few 
moments.  I  went  over  the  house  in  search  of  her.  In 
her  room  1  found  scattered  about  all  the  presents  I  had 
ever  given  her — her  wedding-ring  broken  and  lying  on 
the  ground  among  the  rest.  There  was  no  longer  a  doubt, 
and,  almost  beside  myself,  I  came  here  with  the  news." 

"  And  that  is  all  the  proof  you  have  that  they  have  fled 
together  V 

"  I  scarcely  think  that  any  more  is  required.  What 
else  could  have  caused  his  absence  last  night }  " 

"  But  why  in  Heaven's  name  should  he  elope  with  your 
wife .?"  exclaimed  the  colonel,  impatiently.  "What  did 
he  care  for  Barbara  ?  " 

"A  great  deal.  Colonel  Shirley,"  said  Mr.  Sweet,  quietly. 
*  *  since  he  was  in  love  with  her,  and  promised  to  marry 
her  before  ever  he  saw  your  daugh — I  mean  Miss  Vivia." 

Colonel  Shirley  stopped  in  his  excited  walk,  and  looked 
at  him  with  so  much  astonishment  that  Mr.  Sweet  felt 
called  upon  to  explain. 

"  Last  May  Day,  sir,  he  saw  her.  She  was  the  May 
Queen,  and  he  fell  in  love  with  her,  I  take  it,  on  the  spot. 
From  that  time  until  he  went  to  London,  tbey  were  in- 
separable. The  people  in  Lower  Cliffe  could  tell  you  of 
their  moonlight  walks  on  the  shore,  and  their  sails  on  the 
water ;  and  the  lodge-keepers  could  tell  you  many  a  tale 
of  their  rambles  in  the  park  under  the  trees.  Sir  Roland 
knew  it  all,  but  he  took  good  care  to  keep  silent,  and  I 
I  believe  but  for  him,  Mr.  Leicester  would  never  have  ac- 
cepted my  lady's  invitation,  and  gone  up  that  time  to 
London." 

Still  the  colonel  stood  looking  at  him  in  stern  inquiry. 

"  The  evening  before  he  went,  sir.  I  chanced  to  be 
strolling  about  under  the  trees  down  there  near  the  Nun's 
Grave,  when  I  happened  to  hear  voices,  and,  looking 
through  the  branches,  I  saw  Mr,  Leicester  and  Barbara 
together,  exchanging  vows  of  love  and  promising  ever- 
lasting fidelity.  He  told  her — he  almost  swore — he  would 
marry  her  secretly  when  he  came  back,  and  they  would 
fly  to  America,  or  some  other  distant  place;  and  then, 
not  wishing  to  be  an  eavesdropper,  I  hurried  from  the 
spot." 

"Well,"  said  Colonel  Shirley,  his  stern  eye  still  immov- 


I  rl 


all  the  even- 

rs  but  a  few 
,  of  her.  In 
esents  I  had 
nd  lying  on 
)ger  a  doubt, 
the  news." 
ley  have  fled 

lired.     What 
?" 

pe  with  your 
"What  did 

veet,  quietly, 
sed  to  marry 
Miss  Vivia." 
i,  and  looked 
r.   Sweet  felt 

A' as  the  May 
,  on  the  spot, 
bey  were  in- 
Id  tell  you  of 
r  sails  on  the 

many  a  tale 
Sir  Roland 

silent,  and  I 
;vcr  have  ac- 

that  time  to 

ern  inquiry, 
lanced  to  be 
ear  the  Nun's 
and,  looking 
and  Barl)ara 
imising  ever- 
•re — he  would 
1  they  would 
;e;  and  then, 
ried  from  the 

J  still  immov- 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


0/ 


ably  fixed  on  his  companion,  "and  how  came  Barbara 
to  marry  you  after  all  this  ?  " 

"  For  spite,  sir  !  A  woman  would  sell  her  soul  for  spite  ; 
and  1,  1  loved  her  so  well  that  1  was  only  too  happy  to 
marry  her,  no  matter  what  was  tlie  motive." 

Again  Mr.  Sweet's  handkerchief  came  in  requisition, 
and  Colonel  Shirley  seized  the  bell-rope  and  rang  a  violent 
peal.     The  valet  appeared. 

"Hurst,  bring  my  bieakfast  immediately,  and  order 
round  my  horse  and  another  for  this  gentleman.'' 

Hurst  flew  to  obey.  The  lawyer  used  his  handkerchief, 
and  the  colonel  strode  nj)  and  down  unceasingly,  until 
breakfast  appeared.  Mr.  Sweet  was  invited  to  take  a 
seat,  which  he  did,  and  despite  his  ilhicss  and  his  be- 
reavement, drank  the  strong  coffee  and  ate  the  buttered 
waffles  witli  infinite  relish.  But  tlie  colonel  neither  ate 
nor  drank  ;  and  throwing  a  large  military  cloak  over  his 
evening  costume,  imperatively  ordered  him  to  come  out, 
mount,  and  follow  him. 

"Where  to,  sir.?  "  Mr.  Sweet  took  the  liberty  of  inquir- 


ing. 


"  To  your  house,  sir,"  the  colonel  answered,  sternly. 

"  You  do  not  doubt  what  I  told  you.  Colonel  ?  " 

"  I  shall  investigate  the  matter  myself,"  reiterated  the 
colonel,  coldly. 

"And  after  that,  sir?  "  again  ]\Ir.  Sweet  ventured. 

"After  that,  sir?"  cried  the  colonel,  turning  his  pale 
face  and  flashing  eyes  full  on  liis  companion.  "After 
that,  I  shall  search  for  them,  if  it  be  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth  !  And  if,  when  they  are  found,  things  should  turn 
out  as  I  more  than  half  suspect,  you,  INlr.  Sv/ect,  had 
better  look  to  yourself  !     Now,  come  on  !  " 

With  this  last  abrupt  order,  given  in  the  same  ringing 
tone  of  command  with  which,  in  former  days,  he  had 
headed  many  a  gallant  charge,  the  colonel  dashed  spurs 
into  his  horse  and  galloped  down  the  avenue. 

Mr.  Sweet  followed  and  kept  up  to  him  as  best  he  could, 
in  silence  ;  Tor  he  had  enough  to  do  to  kccji  up  within 
sight  of  his  reckless  leader,  without  thinking  of  talking. 

Early  as  the  hour  was,  Cliftonlea   was  up   and  doing 


and  the  people  stared  with  all  their  eyes  as  the  two  riders 
dashed  past. 

The  lawyer's  house  was  soon  gained,  and  the  Indian 


17 


■i 

Iff 

ill 
1 

1 

'i' 

>\\: 

I 


f  i' 


'(  i 


51 


r 


1; 


m 


-i:.! 


'']'  I 


1 

; 

■        1 

1 

:    ; 

:1.^| 

25S 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


officer  was  storming  at  the  knocker  as  if  he  thought  it 
was  an  enemy's  fortress.  Elizabeth  answered  the  appall- 
ing clatter,  so  terrified  by  the  noise  that  she  was  likely  to 
drop  ;  and  the  colonel  strode  in  and  caught  her  by  the 
arm. 

"  Is  this  the  servant  you  spoke  of,  Mr.  Sweet  ?  " 

"This  is  the  servant,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Sweet. 

And  Elizabeth's  mouth  flew  open,  and  her  complexion 
turned  sea-green  with  terror. 

"  My  good  girl,  you  need  not  be  frightened.  I  am  not 
going  to  hurt  you.  I  merely  want  you  to  answer  me  a 
few  questions.  What  time  did  your  master  leave  home 
yesterday  afternoon  ? " 

"Please,  sir,"  gasped  Elizabeth,  quaking  all  over,  "it 
were  nigh  onto  seven  o'clock.  I  know  I  was  in  the  hall 
when  he  went  out,  and  the  clock  struck  seven  a  little 
after." 

"  Was  your  mistress  at  home  then  ? " 

"Please,  sir,  yes.     She  was  in  the  parlor." 

"  Who  was  with  her  .?  " 

"Please,  sir,  nobody.     It  was  after  that  he  came." 

"Who  came?" 

"Young  Mr,  Cliffe,  please,  sir — Mr.  Leicester." 

"  How  long  did  he  stay .?  " 

"  Please  sir,  a  good  long  while.  Him  and  missis  was 
a-talking  in  the  parlor  ;  and  it  was  after  dark  when  he 
went  away." 

"  Did  your  mistress  go  with  him .?     Did  he  go  alone  ?  " 

"Please,  sir,  yes.  And  missis  she  come  out  all  dressed 
in  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  a  little  after,  and  went  out  the 
back  way  ;  and  she  ain't  never  come  baci:  since." 

"  Do  vou  know  which  way  she  went .?  ' 

"Please,  sir,  no  ;  I  don't.  I  don't  know  nothing  else," 
said  Elizabeth,  putting  her  apron  to  her  countenance,  and 
beginning  to  whimper. 

It  was  quite  evident  she  did  not.  The  colonel  dropped 
a  gold  coin  into  her  hand,  went  out,  remounted,  followed 
in  silence  still  by  Elizabeth's  master. 

"  To  Cliffe  wood.?"  was  the  second  sententious   order. 

And  again  away  they  galloped  over  "brake,  bush,  ani 
scar,"  to  the  great  mental  and  physical  discomfort  of  one 
of  them  at  least. 

A  rumor  of  the  extraordinary  events  going  on  at  the 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


259 


thought  it 
the  appall- 
as  likely  to 
her  by  the 

t?" 

:omplexion 

I  am  not 
swer  me  a 
save  home 

I  over,  "it 

in  the  hall 

'en  a  little 


ame. 


r. 


nissis  was 
when  he 

o  alone  ? " 

all  dressed 

nt  out  the 


ling-  else," 
lance,  and 

si  dropped 
,  followed 

)us  order, 
bush,  ani 
ort  of  one 

on  at  the 


castle  had  reached  Cliffewood,  and  a  flock  of  curious  ser- 
vants met  them  as  they  entered.  The  colonel  singled  out 
one  of  them — Sir  Roland's  confidential  attendant ;  atid  he 
followed  the  two  gentlemen  into  the  drawing-room. 

"Edwards,"  he"  began,  "what  time  did  Mr.  Leicester 
leave  here  for  the  castle  yesterday .?  Sir  Roland,  you 
know,  came  early,  and  he  remained  behind." 

"  I  know,  sir.  It  was  about  sunset  Mr.  Leicester  left  I 
think." 

"  He  was  out  all  day.  Did  he  dress,  or  did  he  leave  in 
what  he  had  worn  previously  }  " 

"No,  sir.     He  was  in  full  evening  dress." 

"  Did  he  walk  or  ride  .?  " 

"He  left  here  on  foot,  sir." 

"Do  you  know  which  way  he  went  }  " 

"Yes,  sir.      He  took  the  road  direct  to  the  town." 

"  And  you  have  not  seen  or  heard  of  him  since?  " 

"No,  sir." 

The  colonel  turned  as  abruptly  as  before,  and  strode 
out,  followed  still  by  the  mute  lawyer, 

"  To  Lower  Cliffc  !  "  came  again  the  order. 

And  once  more  they  were  dashing  through  the  town,  on 
and  on,  until  they  reached  the  road  that  turned  off  toward 
the  village.  Here  the  horses  were  left  at  the  Cross  Roads 
Inn — an  inn  where,  many  a  time  and  oft,  Leicester  Cliffe 
had  left  his  gallant  gray,  when  going  to  visit  Barbara  ; 
and  they  struck  down  the  rocky  footpath  that  led  to  the 
cottage.  The  wonderful  news  had  created  as  much  sen- 
sation in  the  village  as  the  town,  and  curious  faces  came 
to  the  doors  and  windows  as  they  passed,  and  watched 
them  eagerl/ until  they  vanished  under  Peter  Black's  roof- 
tree. 

The  cottage  looked  unusually  tidy,  and  three  gentlemen 
stood  near  one  of  the  windows  conversing  earnestly  ;  and 
in  those  three  the  nev^-comers  recognized  Mr.  Jones,  the 
town  apothecary ;  Squire  Channing,  the  village  magis- 
trate ;  and  in  the  third,  no  less  an  individual  than  the 
Bishop  of  Cliftonlea. 

This  latter  august  ^personage  held  in  his  hand  a  paper 
which  he  had  been  diligently  perusing ;  and  with  it  in  his 
hand,  he  came  forward  to  address  the  colonel. 

"Ah  I  you've  come  at  last.  I  feared  our  messenger 
would  scarcely  find  you  in  time." 


i 


t  I 


fj  il 


i  V  V 


1        1 

'      '' 

li 

I 


'  ■ 


260 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


"  What  messenger  ?  " 

"Joe,  the  j^amekeeper's  son.     Did  you  not  see  him  ?  " 

"  No.     What  did  you  want  of  me }  " 

"That  wretched  old  woman,''  said  the  bishop,  jerking 
his  thumb  over  his  shoulder  toward  the  door  of  Judith's 
bed-chamber,  "  recovered  her  speech  and  her  senses 
during  the  night,  as  many  do  at  the  point  of  death  ;  for 
she  is  dying,  and  became  frantic  in  her  entreaties  for  a 
clergyman  and  a  magistrate.  Considering  the  matter,  I 
could  do  no  less  than  come  myself;  Mr.  Channir.g  ac- 
companied me,  and  Mr.  Jones  followed  shortly  after,  but 
too  late  to  be  of  any  service.  The  woman  is  at  the  point 
of  death.'' 

"  Ard  what  did  she  want  ?  " 

"To  make  a  dying  deposition  concerning  the  truth  of 
the  story  Mr.  Sweet  told  you  last  night.  She  stated  the 
case  clearly  and  distinctly.  Here  it  is  in  black  and  white  ; 
and  she  was  most  anxious  to  see  you.  We  sent  the  game- 
keeper's son  in  search  of  you  ;  and  Providence  must  have 
sent  you,  since  Joe  has  not  succeeded  in  finding  you. 
Come  in  at  once.     There  is  no  time  to  lose. " 

The  colonel  followed  him  into  the  chamber.  Old  Judith 
lay  on  the  bed,  her  eyes  restless,  and  the  gray  shadow  of 
commg  death  over  her  face.  The  prelate  bent  over  her 
in  his  urbane  way. 

**  My  good  woman,  here  is  Colonel  Shirley." 

The  eyes,  dulling  in  ('eath,  turned  from  their  restless 
wandering  and  fixed  themselves  on  the  colonel's  face. 

"It  is  true  !  "  she  whispered,  hoarsely.  "It  is  all  true. 
I  am  sorry  for  it  now,  but  I  changed  them  ;  Barbara  is 
your  child.  It  drove  her  mad,  and  I'm  dying  with  it  all 
on  my  guilty  soul." 

She  stopped  speaking  suddenly  ;  her  face  turned  livid ; 
the  death-rattle  sounded  in  her  throat ;  she  half  sprang 
up,  and  fell  back  dead. 

Colonel  Shirley  stood  for  a  moment  horror-struck,  and 
then  turned  and  hastily  left  the  room.  If  one  lingering 
doubt  remained  on  his  mind,  concerning  the  truth  of  the 
story,  it  had  all  vanished  now. 

"She  has  gone,"  said  the  bishop,  addressing  his  com- 
panions. "It  is  useless  remaining  longer  here.  Let  us 
go. 

They  all  left  the  house,  and  bent  their  steps  in  the  di- 


WEDDEB  FOR  PIQUE. 


361 


ee  him  ? " 

op,  jerking 
of  Judith's 
her  senses 
death  ;  for 
eaties  for  a 
e  matter,  I 
annir.g  ac- 
y  after,  but 
at  the  point 


the  truth  of 
I  stated  the 
:  and  white  ; 
nt  the  game- 
e  must  have 
-aiding  you. 

Old  Judith 
y  shadow  of 
ent  over  her 


heir  restless 
el's  face. 

t  is  all  true. 
Barbara  is 

r  with  it  all 

turned  livid ; 
half  sprang 

r-struck,  and 
>ne  lingering 
truth  of  the 

ing  his  com- 
lere.     Let  us 

;ps  in  the  di* 


rcction  of  the  park  gates.  The  colonel,  the  bishop,  and 
the  magistrate,  going  first ;  the  lawyer  and  the  apothecary 
following. 

"  Have  you  seen  this  old  woman's  son — this  Peter 
Black  ?  "  asked  Colonel  Shirley,  as  they  walked  alon^r. 

"No!"  said  Mr.  Channing.  "The  nurse  mentioned 
that  he  had  not  been  seen  since  yesterday  evcnin;^. " 

"  Is  it  true  about  this  elopement"  asked  the  bishop,  in  a 
low  voice. 

"Quite   true." 

"  How  dreadful  it  all  is,  and  vet,  how  calmly  you  bear 
it,  Cliffe?" 

The  colonel  turned  on  him  a  look — a  look  that  answered 
him  without  words — and  they  walked  on  in  silence. 
When  the  bishop  spoke  again,  it  was  in  an  uncommonly 
subdued  tone, 

"  How  are  Sir  Roland  and  Lady  Agnes,  this  morning? 
I  should  have  been  up  to  see,  but  for " 

The  sentence  was  never  finished.  A  yell  broke  the 
silence — a  yell  to  which  an  Indian  war-whoop  was  as 
nothing ;  and  out  from  among  the  trees  burst  Joe,  the 
gamekeeper's  son,  with  a  face  of  ghastly  whiteness,  hair 
standing  on  end,  and  eyes  starting  from  their  sockets. 
At  sight  of  them,  another  yell  which  he  was  setting  up 
seemed  to  freeze  on  his  lips,  and  he,  himself,  stood  stock- 
still,  rooted  to  the  spot.  At  the  same  instant,  Squire 
Channing  set  up  an  echoing  shout : 

"There  goes  Tom  Shirley  !     Look  how  he  runs  !  " 

They  looked  ;  bursting  out  from  the  trees,  in  another 
direction,  was  a  tall  figure,  its  black  hair  flowing.  It 
vanished  again,  almost  as  soon  as  it  appeared,  into  a  by- 
path ;  and  they  turned  their  attention  to  the  seemingly 
horror-struck  young  person  before  them. 

"What  is  the  matter?  What  has  frightened  you,  my 
boy  ?  "  asked  the  bishop. 

"  Oh,  my  lord  !  Oh,  Colonel !  Oh,  Colonel  !  "  gasped 
Joe,  almost  paralyzed,  "he's  dead!  he's  killed!  he's 
murde  ed  !  " 

The  three  gentlemen  looked  at  each  other,  and  then,  in 
wonder,  at  Joe. 

"He's  up  here  on  the  Nun's  Grave  ;  he  is,  with  his 
head  all  smashed  to  pieces.     Come  quick  and  see  1  " 


262 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


They  followed  him  up  the  avenue,  into  the  by-path, 
under  the  gloomy  elms,  to  the  forsaken  spot. 

A  figure  lay  there,  on  its  face,  its  hat  off,  a  horrible  gash 
on  the  back  of  the  head,  where  it  had  been  felled  down 
from  behind — its  own  fair  brown  hair,  and  the  grass 
around  soaked  in  blood. 

Though  the  face  was  hidden  in  the  dust,  the  moment 
they  saw  it  they  knew  who  it  was,  and  all  recoiled  as  if 
struck  back  by  a  giant  hand. 

It  was  the  colonel  vl.o  ^  ov:  red  fiist,  and,  stooping, 
he  raised  the  body,  ari.I  tiirned  the  face  to  the  garish 
sunlight.  The  blo'  d  t!iat  had  rained  down  from  the 
gash  in  the  head  had  dnr.colcr';  1  it  all,  but  they  knew 
it — knew  that,  on  the  spot  wh jre  he  had  prayed  for  a 
short  life  if  he  proved  false,  Leicester  Clift*^  lay  cold  and 
dead. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 


r 


j 


I  r,|, 


A   HOUSE   OF  SORROW. 

Murdered  !  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  it.  This,  then, 
was  where  the  bridegroom  was.  While  they  had  been 
accusing  him  in  their  thoughts  and  vowing  future  venge- 
ance, he  had  been  lying  here,  assassinated  by  some 
unknown  hand.  The  faces  of  all  had  whitened  with 
horror  at  the  sight ;  but  Colonel  Shirley,  whose  stern 
calmness  nothing  seemed  able  to  move,  lifted  his  head 
an  instant  after,  with  a  face  that  looked  as  if  changed  to 
stone. 

' '  A  horrible  murder  has  been  done  here  !  My  boy, " 
turning  to  Joe,  whose  teeth  were  chattering  in  his  head, 
**  how  and  when  did  you  discover  this  ?  " 

"It  were  just  now,  sir,"  replied  Joe,  keeping  far  from 
the  body,  and  looking  at  it  in  intensest  terror.  "My 
lord  and  Mr.  Channing,  they  sent  me  up  to  the  castle 
a-looking  for  you,  sir,  and  you  wasn't  there  ;  and  I  was  a- 
coming  back  to  tell  them,  so  I  was,  down  this  way,  which 
it's  a  short-cut  to  Lower  Cliffe,  and  as  I  got  here,  I  saw  a 
man  standing  up  and  looking  down  on  this  here,  which 
it  were  Mr.  'Tom  Shirley,  as  I  knowed  the  minute  I  seen 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


263 


him.  Then,  sir,  he  turned  round,  and  when  he  saw  me, 
he  ran  away  ;  and  th?n  I  saw  him  lying  there,  all  over 
]!ood,  and  I  got  f  ighL  Micd  and  ran  away,  too  ;  and  then 
I  siiet  you  ;  and  that  s  everything  I  know  about  it." 

•'  Can  Tom  Shirley  be  the  mur  -rer  ?  "  asked  the  bishop, 
ii;  a  low,  deep  voice. 

"Cii.'umstances,  at  lenst,  are  strong  enough  against 
film  to  warrant  his  arrest,"  said  Mr.  Channing.  "Asa 
mr.gist'-ate,  1  feci  it  my  duty  to  go  in  search  of  him  before 
he  escapes." 

He  hurried  away  as  he  spoke  ;  and  the  colonel,  taking 
off  his  large  military  cloak,  spread  it  on  the  ground. 

"  Help  me  to  place  the  body  on  this, "he  said,  quieth' : 
and,  witli  the  assistance  of  Mr.  Sweet,  the  still  bleed,  g 
form  was  laid  upon  it  and  covered  from  the  mocking  •  n 
light  in  its  folds.  Then,  at  another  motion  from  Ji:b 
colonel,  the  apothecary  and  the  lawyer  lifted  it  '  ,  lb. 
lower  ends,  while  he  himseir  took  the  head,  an-"'  .h  y 
slowly  turned  with  their  dreaaail  burden  towa  .1  the 
house.  Joe  follov.'ed  at  a  respectful  distance,  still  w. a  an 
excessively  scared  and  horrified  visage. 

Mr.  Channing  had,  meantime,  been  making  an  arrest. 
Getting  over  the  ground  with  tremendous  sweeps  of  limb, 
he  had  nearly  reached  the  house,  thinking  to  call  the  serv- 
ants to  aid  him  in  his  search,  when  he  espied  a  tall,  dark 
figure  leaning  against  a  tree,  one  arm  thrown  over  a  high 
branch,  and  the  head,  with  all  its  dark  curls,  bare  to  the 
morning  breeze,  lying  thereon. 

The  magistrate  went  up  and  dropped  his  hand  heavily 
on  the  shoulder  of  the  drooping  figure,  and  Tom  Shirley 
lifted  his  face  and  looked  at  him. 

What  a  face  !  What  a  change  in  a  few  brief  days  ! 
Usually  it  was  red  enough  and  bold  enough  ;  but  now 
it  was  almost  ghastly  in  its  thinness  and  pallor.  The 
face  of  the  murdered  man  could  scarcely  have  been  more 
corpse-like,  the  black  hair  heightening  the  effect,  as  it 
hung  damp  and  disordered  around  it,  and  the  black  eyes 
looking  unnaturally  large  and  su^iken.  Nothing,  Mr. 
Channing  thought,  but  remorse  for  some  enacted  crime 
could  have  wrought  so  vivid  a  change  ;  but  then,  per- 
haps Mr.  Channing  had  never  been  in  love — at  all 
events,  so  crazily  in  love — and  been  jilted,  like  poor  Tom 
Shirley. 


I 


i 

1  ■ ' ' 

!  ' 

i 

'  1 

264 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


"  Well  ?  "  said  Tom,  in  a  voice  as  hollow  and  changed, 
and  unnatural,  as  his  face. 

"Mr.  Shirley,  it  is  my  painful  duty  to  arrest  you." 

Tom  sprang  erect  as  if  some  one  had  struck  him. 

"  Arrest  me  !     What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Mr.  Shirley,  I  am  very  sorry  ;  but  duty  must  bs  ful- 
filled, and  it  is  mine  to  make  you  my  prisoner." 

"Your  prisoner,  sir!"  exclaimed  Tom,  in  something 
like  his  customary  tone,  shaking  him  off  as  if  he  had  been 
a  baby.      "  On  what  charge  ?  " 

"  On  that  of  murdering  your  cousin,  Leicester  Cliffe." 

Tom  stood  perfectly  still — stunned.  A  volley  of  fierce 
words  that  had  been  rising  hotly  to  his  lips  seemed  to 
freeze  there.  His  face  turned  dark  red,  and  then  whiter 
than  before,  and  the  arm  he  had  raised  dropped  power- 
less by  his  side.  Whatever  the  emotion  which  prompted 
the  display,  the  magistrate  sot  it  down  to  one  cause — 
guilt — and  again  laid  his  hand  firmly  on  the  young  man's 
shoulder. 

"I  regret  it,  Tom,  but  it  must  be  done.  I  beg  you 
will  not  ofTer  any  resistance,  but  will  come  with  me 
peaceably  to  the  house.  Ah  !  there  they  go  with  the  body 
now." 

Tom  compressed  his  lips  and  lifted  up  his  head. 

"I  will  go  with  you,  Mr.  Channing.  It  matters  very 
little  what  becomes  of  me,  one  way  or  the  other." 

He  raised  his  hat  from  the  ground,  to  which  it  had 
fallen,  and  they  walked  on  together,  side  by  side.  The 
body  was  borne  before  them  into  the  morning-room,  and 
through  that  into  a  smaller  one,  used  by  Vivia  as  a  studio. 
It  was  strewn  with  easels,  blank  canvas,  busts,  and  lay 
figures,  and  on  a  low  couch  therein  their  burden  was  laid. 
The  cloak  was  removed.  The  colonel  sent  one  of  the 
servants  in  search  of  the  physician,  who  had  remained 
all  night  in  the  house,  sternly  warning  the  rest  not  to  let 
a  word  of  the  event  reach  the  ears  of  Lady  Agnes  or  the 
young  ladies.  Hurst  brought  in  warm  water  and  sponge, 
and  the  blood  was  washed  off  the  dead  face.  It  was 
perfectly  calm  ;  there  was  no  distortion  to  mar  its  almost 
womanly  beauty,  or  to  show  that  he  had  suffered  in  the 
last  struggle.  The  blue  eyes  were  wide  open  in  the 
cold  glaze  of  death  ;  and  the  bishop,  bending  down,  had 
just  closed  them  reverently,  as  the  physician  came  in. 


Tl 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


265 


hanged, 

It 
ou. 

im. 

it  be  ful- 

3mething 
had  been 

•CHffe." 
f  of  fierce 
eenied  to 
en  whiter 
ed  power- 
prompted 
e  cause — 
Ling  man's 

I  beg  you 

:    with  me 
h  the  body- 
ad. 
latters  very 

3r." 

ch   it  had 
[side.     The 
room,  and 
.,s  a  studio. 
jts,  and  lay 
n  was  laid, 
lone  of  the 
remained 
not  to  let 
nes  or  the 
[nd  sponge, 
e.     It  was 
[r  its  almost 
'red  in  the 
pen  in  the 
down,  had 
;ame  in. 


The  examination  that  followed  was  brief.  The  blow 
had  evidently  been  given  by  a  thick  club,  and  he  had 
been  struck  but  once,  death  following  almost  instan- 
taneously. The  deed,  too,  from  the  appearance  of  the 
wound,  must  have  been  committed  some  hours  previ- 
ously ;  for  the  blood  on  his  clothes  was  thickly  clotted 
and  dry. 

In  silence  they  left  the  studio  and  gathered  togethe^ 
'.n  the  morning-room.  The  colonel  had  warned  the  serv- 
ants to  keep  quiet;  but  who  ever  knew  warnings  to 
avail  in  such  cases }  Half  a  dozen  gentlemen,  the  guests 
who  had  remained  in  the  house  the  previous  night,  had 
been  told,  and  were  there  already.  The  magistrate  had 
taken  a  seat  of  authority,  and  prepared  to  hold  a  sort  of 
inquest  and  investigate  the  matter.  The  prisoner  stood 
near  a  window,  drawn  up  to  his  full  height,  with  folded 
arms,  looking  particularly  proud  and  especially  scornful, 
guarded  by  Messrs.  Sweet  and  Jones.  The  colonel  took 
a  seat,  and  motioned  the  rest  to  follow  his  example  ;  and 
Mr.  Channing  desired  Hurst,  keeping  sentry  at  the  door, 
to  call  in  Joe. 

Joe,  standing  in  the  hall,  telling  his  story  over  and.  over 
again  to  a  curious  crowd  of  servants,  came  in,  looking 
scared  as  ever,  and  told  his  tale  once  more,  keeping  to 
the  same  facts  steadily,  in  spite  of  any  amount  of  cross- 
questioning. 

When  this  first  witness  was  dismissed,  the  bishop  turned 
to  the  prisoner. 

"  Tom,  what  have  you  to  say  to  all  this  }  " 

"Nothing,  sir." 

"  Is  what  this  boy  says  true  ?  Did  he  really  discover 
you  bv  the  body  ?  " 

"He  did." 

"And  why,  if  you  are  not  guilty,  should  you  fly  at  his 
approach  ?  " 

"I  did  nothing  of  the  sort.  Joe  makes  a  mistake  there, 
for  I  never  saw  him  at  all." 

"  And  how  do  you  account  for  your  presence  there.? " 

•'Very  simply,  sir,  I  chanced  to  be  walking  through 
the  grounds,  and  came  to  that  particular  spot  by  mere 
accident." 

"  How  long  had  you  been  there  when  Joe  discovered 
you.-* 


i 


?;   ' 


% 


!£        I 


266 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


"I  did  not  remain  five  minutes  altogether.  I  saw  and 
recognized  who  it  was,  and  when  I  recovered  from  tlie 
first  shock  of  horror,  I  turned  and  fled  to  give  the  ahirm." 

Mr.  Channing  leaned  over  and  spoke  in  a  low  voice  to 
Colonel  Shirley. 

"Some  one  told  me,  when  here  last  evening,  that  the 
prisoner  had  been  absent  for  several  days — is  it  true  ? " 

•'Yes." 

"Mr.  Shirley,"  said  the  magistrate,  speaking  aloud, 
"you  have  been  absent  for  the  past  week — will  you  in- 
form us  where  ? " 

"I  have  been  absent,"  said  Tom,  coldly.  "I  have 
been  in  Cliftonlea." 

"Where?  " 

"At  the  Cliffe  Arms." 

"  Why  were  you  not  at  home  ? " 

"  I  decline  answering  that  question,  sir." 

"Were  you  in  the  town  last  night?" 

"  No,  sir.     I  was  on  the  grounds." 

Everybody  looked  at  each  other  blankly.  Tom  stood 
up,  haughty  and  defiant,  evidently  perfectly  reckless  of 
what  he  admitted. 

"  It  is  very  strange,"  said  Mr.  Channing,  slowly,  "  that 
you  should  have  been  there  instead  of  in  the  house  here 
— your  proper  place.  What  reasons  had  you  for  such  a 
course  ?  " 

"  I  decline  answering,  that  question,  too.  I  decline," 
said  Tom,  with  compressed  lips  and  flashing  eyes,  "an- 
swering any  more  questions  whatever.  My  motives  are 
my  own,  and  you  nor  any  one  else  s.  all  ever  hear 
them  !  " 

There  was  very  little  need  for  Tom  to  make  his  motives 
know^n.  Not  one  present — the  colonel,  perhaps,  alone 
excepted — but  knew  how  madly  he  had  been  in  love  with 
his  cousin,  and  that  his  furious  jealousy  of  the  accepted 
lover  had  driven  him  from  home.  All  knew  his  violent 
temper,  too  ;  his  fierce  outbursts  of  passion  ;  and  believ- 
ing him  guilty,  not  one  of  them  needed  to  be  told  the 
cause  of  his  prowling  about  the  grounds  in  secret  last  night. 

Dead  silence  followed,  broken  by  a  rap  at  the  door. 
Hurst  opened  it,  and  the  gamekeeper  entered,  carrying  in 
his  hand  a  great  bludgeon,  all  stained  with  blood  and 
thickly  matted  tufts  of  hair. 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


367 


saw  and 
I  from  the 
le  alarm." 
V  voice  to 

T,  that  the 
,  true  ? " 

ng   aloud, 
ill  you  iu- 

"I  have 


Tom  stood 
reckless  of 

>wly,  "that 

house  here 

for  such  a 

I  decline," 

eyes,  ' '  an- 

lotives  are 

|l  ever  hear 

his  motives 
laps,    alone 
[in  love  with 
|he  accepted 
his  violent 
and  believ- 
be  told  the 
let  last  night. 
lat  the  dooi. 
carrying  in 
blood   and 


"Gentlemen,"  said  the  man,  coming  forward  and  bow- 
ing, "this  here  is  what  did  the  deed!  I  found  it  lying 
among  the  marsh  grass,  where  it  had  been  chucked.  You 
can  see  the  blood  and  the  hairs  sticking  in  it.  I  know 
the  stick  very  well.  I  have  seen  it  lying  down  there  nea^- 
the  Nun's  Grave  fifty  times." 

The  gentlemen  examined  the  stick — a  murderous-look- 
ing bludgeon,  full  of  great  knobs  and  knots — capable,  in 
a  strong  hand,  of  felling  an  ox. 

"And,  gentlemen,"  continued  the  gamekeeper,  *'I 
have  something  else  to  say.  Last  evening,  about  half- 
past  eight,  as  I  was  standing  down  near  the  park  gates,  I 
saw  Mr.  Leicester  come  through,  walking  very  fast.  I 
thought,  of  course,  he  was  going  up  to  the  castle,  and  had 
come  through  Lower  Cliffe  by  way  of  a  short  cut." 

"  Was  he  alone? "  asked  Mr.  Channing. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Did  you  see  any  one  following  him  !  " 

"  I  didn't  wait  to  see,  sir.  Me  and  some  more  went 
up  to  see  the  fireworks,  and  that  was  the  last  I  saw  o£ 
him." 

"I  think  the  facts  are  quite  strong  enough  to  warrant 
the  committal  of  the  accused,"  said  Mr.  Channing  to  the 
colonel. 

"  1  think  so,"  was  the  cold  reply. 

And  the  warrant  of  committal  was  made  out  immedi- 
ately. Then  there  was  a  general  uprising  ;  a  carriage 
was  ordered,  and  Mr.  Channing  approached  Tom. 

"  I  am  sorry — I  am  very  sorry — but " 

"Don't  distress  yourself,  Mr.  Channing,"  said  Tom, 
cynically.      "  I  am  ready  to  go  with  you  at  any  moment." 

The  bishop  came  over,  and  began,  in  his  urbane  way, 
some  jMous  admonition  ;  to  which  Tom  listened  as  un- 
moved as  if  he  were  talking  Greek. 

The  carriage  ca^  le  round  to  the  door,  and  he  and  Mr. 
Channing  turned  to  go.  One  glance  he  cast  back  toward 
the  colonel ;  but  he  was  standing  with  his  face  averted ; 
and  Tom  passed  the  great  portico  of  Castle  Cliffe,  the  home 
of  his  boyhood,  for  the  last  time,  and  in  five  minutes  was 
on  his  way  to  Cliftonlea  jail,  to  be  tried  for  his  life  on  a 
charge  of  willful  murder. 

And  still  the  news  fled ;  and  while  the  examination  was 
going  on  below,  it  had  been  whispered,   upstairs  and 


I 


mmi-'p^.. 


2C8 


WEDDED  EOK  J' /QUE. 


1\ 


I    ti"/ 


\U     ' 


V 

li 

1^ 


I 

:■     I 


,1 

■'      If 


douMistairs.  and  had  roaclu'd  the  ears  of  her  who  should 
havo  been  the  last  tt)  hear  it. 

As  all  slowly  dispoised  IVoni  the  morninpf-rooni,  the 
colonel  turned  into  the  studio  to  taUe  one  last  look  at  what 
lay  there,  and  louiid  tliat  an(>ther  had  preceded  him.  Be- 
sides the  door  ot"  cdninumieation  with  the  niorninjy-ronm, 
the  studio  had  anollier  openinj^  in  the  hall.  It  stood  wide 
now  ;  and  standin;';  over  die  rij^id  I'orni,  j^azinji;-  at  it  as  if 
the  siidd  weri>  slowly  turninj';'  her  to  marble,  was  \'i\ia. 

"\'ivia  !  \'ivia  !  "  erii'd  the  colonel,  in  horror.  "  Why 
are  vcm:  here  ?  "" 

She  lurned  and  lifted  her  eyt's  ;  and  tlu>  next  moment, 
witho'-it  word  or  cry,  she  had  lallen  liack  st-nscless  in  his 
arms. 

It  was  the  iirst  time*  in  his  lite  In*  had  ever  seen  V'^ivia 
faint.  She  was  of  ioo  sanj^uiui'  a  temjitM'ament  tor  liiat  ; 
ami  h  '  nearly  tiM"e  the  hell  down  in  his  frantic  siimmons 
for  ludp,  as  he  (juittiMl  the  rotuvi  of  death  and  carrit-d  her 
iiji  tv)  her  chandler,  jeanncliecame  in  dismay,  withsmell- 
in-^'-salls  and  ct^loL^ne  :  and  leavinj:;-  her  in  her  char<.;;e.  the 
ct^loiud  went  out.  In  the  hall  ht>  was  encovndereti  by 
IMari;arel,  looking- like  eviM'yluMly  els(\  pale  and  wild. 

"  Is  it  true.''  What  is  this  story  they  are  tellini;-.'  flas 
Leicester  C'lilTe  been  murdered  ?  " 

"  TNIaii^aret.  >^o  to  your  room  !  It  is  no  story  for  you  to 
hear!" 

"I  must  hear!"  exclaimed  Marj^'aret,  in  a  suppressed 
voice,  her  dark  eyes  tilling-  with  a  tlusky  fire.  "Tell  me, 
or  I  shall  die  !  " 

lie  looked  at  her  in  wonder, 

"Margaret,  you  are  ill.  ^'ou  look  like  a  ghost!  Do 
go  to  your  own  room  and  lie  «.  own. '' 

"Will  you  tell  me,  or  shall  I  go  and  see  for  myself?" 

"  If  you  will  hear  such  horrors,  it  is  quite  true.  He  has 
been  murdered  !  " 

"And  they  have  arrested  some  one  for  it,"  she  hoarsely 
whispered. 

"They  have  arrested  Tom  Shirley." 

She  clasped  both  hands  over  her  heart,  and  a  spasm 
crossed  her  face. 

"  And  do  you  believe  him  guilty  ?  " 
"I  do,"  he  coldly  and  sternly  said. 

She  sank  down  with  a  sort  of  cry. 


'','' 


WEDDED  EOR  PJQUE. 


269 


o  should 

ooni,  the 
k  at  what 
him.     Hc- 

to(vl  wide* 
at  it  as  if 
s  Vivia. 
•.      "Why 

L  moinont, 
;icss  in  his 

so(Mi  Vivia 
il  for  Ihal  ; 

suiimions 
canicd  her 
wilhsnicU- 
.•har,-;i\  the 
unUMo^L  by 
,(1  wild. 

n<r?     lias 

for  yon  to 

su]'»prcsscd 
'  Toll  me, 


diost !     Do 

r  myself?" 
He  has 

he  hoarsely 


nd  a  spasm 


I^iit  he  had  other  thiuj^^s  to  think  of  besides  her  ;  and  lie 
left  lier  leaninj;  aj^ainst  tlic  wall,  Ikt  hands  .slill  (•las|)r(l 
over  her  heart,  and  her  face  workin^i^  in  a  sort  of  inward 
an,L,^uish.  So  slie  st(Jod  for  nearly  an  honr,  without  mov- 
ing-, and  thcMi  Joanni'tte  eanu*  out  of  the  Rose  Room  cry- 
ing and  wipinj^  lu-r  ryes,  followed  liy  Vivia,  whf>  seemed 
to  have  no  tt-ars  to  shed. 

"  N'ou  oujdit  to  lie  down,  .and  be  nursed  yourself,  ma- 
demoiselle, instead  of  j^^oinj,^  to  nurse  other  people,"  cried 
the  attendant.      "You  are  hardly  ht  to  stand  now." 

"  Il  will  not  be  lon<^,  jeannetti.;,"  said  Vivia,  wearily. 
"All  my  labors  here  will  soon  be  at  an  end." 

"Your  j^randmamma  won't  see  you,  either;  so  your 
goin^-  is  of  no  use.  I  lortense  told  me  that  she  gave  orders 
you  were  not  to  be  admitted  to  her  room." 

It  was  (juite  true.  In  the  revulsion  of  feelinj^  that  fol- 
lowed the  awrdvening  from  her  hysteria,  Lady  Ag'nes  had 
been  seized  with  a  violent  aversion  to  seeing  her  once 
almost  idolized  granddaughter.  She  could  no  longer 
think  of  her  without  also  thinking  of  lier  connection 
with  some  wretched  old  woman  in  Lower  Cliffe  and  a 
returned  convict.  She  felt — unjustly  enough — as  if  Vivia 
had  l)een  imposing  on  her  all  her  life,  and  that  she  never 
wanted  to  see  her  again.  And  so  when  I  lortense  opened 
the  door  in  answer  to  the  well-known  gentle  tap,  Vivia 
was  (juietly  and  firmly  refused  admittance,  and  the  door 
civilly  shut  in  her  face. 

It  was  only  one  more  blow  added  to  the  rest — only  ful- 
filling the  rude  but  exjiressive  adage,  "When  a  dog  is 
drowning,  every  one  offers  him  water  ;  "  but  Vivia  t  t- 
tercul  as  she  received  it,  and  stood  for  a  moment  clinging 
to  the  stair  balustrade  for  support,  with  everything  swim- 
ming around  her.  Then  this  too,  passed,  as  all  blows  dc, 
and  slie  walked  back,  almost  tottering  as  she  went,  to  her 
ow-n  rcjom. 

Even  there,  still  another  blow  awaited  her.  Margaret 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  her  face  livid,  her  eyes 
blazing. 

"Oil,  Margaret !  "  was  Vivia's  cry,  as  she  dropped  her 
head  on  her  shoulder. 

But  Margaret  thrust  her  off  with  repulsion. 

"  Don't  touch  me — don't !  "  she  said,  in  the  same  sup- 
pressed voice.      "You  murderess  !  " 


\ 


4 


iV' 


270 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


Vivia  had  been  standing  looking  at  her  as  a  deer  does 
with  a  knife  at  its  throat,  but  at  the  terrible  word  she 
dropped  into  a  seat,  as  if  the  last  blow  she  could  ever 
receive  had  fallen. 

'*  You  !  "  said  Margaret,  with  her  pitiless  black  eyes  seem- 
ing to  scorch  into  her  face,  and  her  voice  frightful  in  its 
depth  of  suppressed  pr^ssion — "  you,  who  have  walked  all 
your  life  over  our  heads  with  a  ring  and  a  clatter — you, 
who  are  nothing,  after  all,  but  a  pitiful  upstart — you  who 
have  been  the  curse  of  my  life  and  of  all  who  have  ever 
known  you  !  I  tell  you,  you  are  a  double  murderess  !  for 
not  only  is  his  blood  on  your  head — he  who  Hes  down 
there  a  ghastly  corpse,  but  another  who  will  die  on  the 
scaffold  for  your  crime  !  " 

The  corpse  downstairs  could  scarcely  have  looked  more 
ghastly  than  did  Vivia  herself  at  that  moment.  Her  white 
lips  parted  to  speak,  but  no  sound  came  forth. 

Pitilessly  Margaret  went  on  : 

"You,  who  stood  so  high  and  queenly  in  your  pride, 
could  stoop  to  lure  and  wile,  like  any  other  coquette  ! — 
could  win  hearts  by  your  false  smiles,  and  then  cast  them 
in  scorn  from  your  feet !  I  tell  you,  I  despise  you  !  I 
hate  you  !  You  have  brought  disgrace  and  ruin  on  him, 
on  all  connected  with  you,  and  you  have  broken  my 
heart !  " 

"Oh,  Margaret !  have  you  no  mercy? '' 

*  *  None  for  such  as  you  !  I  loved  him — I  loved  him  with 
my  whole  heart,  ten  thousand  times  better  than  you  ever 
could,  and  you  had  no  mercy  on  me.  You  won  his 
heart,  and  then  cast  it  from  you  as  a  child  does  a  broken 
toy  !  " 

' '  Margaret,  listen  to  me.  I  will  be  heard !  I  know 
you  loved  Leicester,  but  it  was  not  my  fault  that " 

Margaret  broke  into  a  hysterical  laugh. 

"  Loved  Leicester  !  Is  she  a  fool  as  well  as  a  miser- 
able jilt  ?  Oh,  you  might  have  married  him  with  all  my 
heart ! " 

"And  who,  then Margaret,  is  it  possible  you  are 

speaking  of  Tom  Shir " 

"  No  !  "  cried  Margaret,  holding  out  her  hands,  with  a 
sort  of  scr'^jam,  "not  his  name  from  your  lips!  Oh,  I 
loved  him,  you  know  it  well !  and  now  he  is  to  be  tried 
for  his  life,  and  all  through  you  :     Murderess  you  are — a 


ft 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


271 


deer  does 
word  she 
:ould  ever 

;yes  seem- 
htful  in  its 
walked  all 
Iter— you, 
—you  who 
have  ever 
deress  1  for 
lies  down 
die  on  the 

)oked  more 
Her  white 


your  pride, 
coquette  ! — • 
;n  cast  them 
ise  you  !_  I 
jin  on  him, 
broken  my 

ed  him  with 
an  you  ever 
ou  won  his 
)es  a  broken 

!     I  know 
Ithat 

as  a  miser- 
with  all  my 

^ible  you  are 

lands,  with  a 
]ips!     Oh,   I 
is  to  be  tried 
you  are — a 


double  murderess  !  for  if  he  dies  it  wi)I        ^'^rough  you, 
as  much  as  if  you  placed  the  rope  aroun  ,   .is  neck  !  " 

Vivia  had  dropped  down,  with  her  face  hidden  in  her 
hands. 

"Margaret,  spare  me!  Oh,  what  have  I  done — what 
have  I  done,  that  all  should  turn  from  me  like  this  ? 
Margaret,  1  am  going  away.  I  am  going  back  to  my 
convent  in  France,  where  I  shall  never  trouble  you  nor 
anybody  else  again.  All  the  world  has  turned  against 
me  ;  but  there,  at  least,  I  can  go  and  die  !  " 

"  Go,  then  ;  the  sooner  the  better.  You  are  no  longer 
needed  here." 

"Oh,  I  know  it!  All  have  turned  against  me — all 
whom  I  love  ;  and  I  would  die  for  them.  Even  you, 
Margaret,  might  forgive  me  now. " 

"Ask  forgiveness  from  God!  I  never  will  forgive 
you  !  " 

Vivia's  head  dropped  down  on  the  arm  of  the  chair. 

^largaret  left  her,  sought  her  room,  and  appeared  no 
more  that  day. 

In  the  gray  dawn  of  the  next  morning,  when  the  first 
train  went  shrieking  from  the  Cliftonlea  depot,  on  its  way 
to  London,  a  slight,  girlish  figure,  shrouded  in  a  long 
mantle  and  closely  veiled,  glided  in,  took  a  seat  in  a 
remote  corner,  and  was  borne  swiftly  away  from  the 
home  to  which  she  had  returned  so  short  a  time  before  like 
a  triumphant  queen,  which  she  now  left  like  a  stealthy 
culprit. 

That  same  morning,  Colonel  Shirley  found  a  brief 
note  lying  on  his  dressing-table,  that  moved  him  more 
than  all  the  strange  and  tragical  events  of  the  past  two 
days  : 

"Dear  Papa  : — Let  me  call  you  so  this  once,  for  the  last 
time.  When  you  read  this,  I  shall  be  far  away,  but  I 
could  not  go  without  saying  good-bye,  I  am  going  back 
to  my  dear  France,  to  my  dear  convent,  where  I  was  so 
happy,  and  I  shall  strive  to  atone  by  a  life  of  penance 
for  the  misery  I  have  caused  you  all  to  suffer.  Dear, 
dear  papa,  I  shall  love  you  and  pray  for  you  always,  and 
I  know,  much  as  you  have  been  wronged,  you  will  not 
quite  forget 


I  w 


I 


li 


M^t 


f     i 


ife 


i  i 


'if      I 


"'1:1 


372 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


She,  too,  was  lost !  Down  below,  Leicester  Cliffe  lay 
dead.  Tom  Shirley  was  in  a  felon's  cell.  In  his  room, 
Sir  Roland  lay  ill  unto  death.  Lady  Agnes  and  Margaret, 
shut  u,p  in  their  own  apartments,  never  came  out  ;  and 
Colonel  Shirley   was   left  utterly   alone.      Truly,   Castle 


Cliffe  was  a  house  of  mourning. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 


THE    PRISONER. 


The  August  roses  were  in  full  bloom,  in  the  scorching 
heat  of  early  afternoon,  within  a  pretty  garden,  in  a  pretty 
village,  some  miles  from  London,  as  a  light  wagon,  hold- 
ing two  gentlemen,  drove  through  the  wooden  gates,  and 
up  a  shaded  avenue,  toward  a  large  brick  building.  The 
gentlemen — one,  tall  and  handsome,  with  a  grand,  kingly 
sort  of  face,  and  dark,  grave  eyes  ;  the  other,  middle- 
sized,  but  looking  puny  compared  with  his  companion,  a 
very  shining  personage,  with  yellow  tinseled  hair,  wear- 
ing a  bright  buff  waistcoat,  and  a  great  profusion  of 
jewelry — ah'ghted  before  the  principal  entrance.  A  stout 
little  gentleman,  standing  on  the  steps  awaiting  them,  ran 
down  at  their  approach,  and  shook  hands  with  this  latter, 
in  the  manner  of  an  old  friend. 

"  Good-afternoon,  ]\Ir.  Sweet.  It  is  a  sight  for  sair 
een'  as  tlie  Scotch  sav,  to  see  you  again." 

"Thank  you,  doctor,"  said  the  tinseled  individual. 
"This  is  the  gentleman  I  told  you  of.  Doctor  South, 
Colonel  Shirley." 

The  doctor  bowed  low.  and  the  colonel  raised  his  hat. 

"You  are  welcome,  Colonel.  I  presume  you  have 
come  to  see  my  unfortunate  patient,  INIrs.  Wildman." 

' '  I  have.     We  can  see  Vier,  1  hope.  *' 
'  Oh,  certainly,  poor  thing  !     A  very  quiet  case,  hers, 
but  quite  eiMl'irable.      Most  cases  of  melancholy  madness 
are.     Tins  way,  if  you  please." 

Leadir;g  thein  through  ;.  long  hall,  the  doctor  ascended 
a  slL'rcase,  eut.erfd  a  coriidor,  with  a  long  array  of  doors 
O'.i  i.lhw  ha,id,  lollowea  by  his  two  companions. 


^ 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


273 


•  Cliffe  lay 
I  his  room, 
1  Margaret, 
I  out  ;  and 
uly,   Castle 


le  scorching 
n,  in  a  pretty 
vagon,  hold- 
in  gates,  and 
ilding.     The 
rrand,  kingly 
'her,   middle- 
ompanion,  a 
d  hair,  wear- 
profusion   of 
ce.     A  stout 
ng  them,  ran 
th  this  latter, 

ight   for   sair 

Id  individual. 
iQctor  South, 

liscd  his  hat. 
|ie   you   have 
ildman." 

let  case,  hers, 
loly  madness 

:tor  ascended 
irray  of  doors 
hions. 


"  My  female  patients  are  all  on  this  side,"  he  said,  un- 
locking one  of  the  doorj-,  and  again  leading  the  way  into 
another,  with  neat  little  sjleeping-rooms  on  each  side,  and, 
finally,  into  a  large,  long  apartment,  with  the  summer 
sunshine  coming  pleasantly  through  two  high  windows, 
grated  v\/ithout,  tilled  with  women  of  all  ages.  Some  sat 
peaceably  knitting  and  sewing  ;  some  were  walking  up 
and  down  ;  some  sat  talking  10  themselves  ;  but  the  col- 
onel was  astonished  to  see  how  comparatively  quiet  they 
all  were.  His  eye  wandered  round  in  search  of  lier  he 
had  come  to  see,  and  it  rested  and  lingered  at  last  on  one 
sitting  close  to  a  window,  who  neither  moved  nor  looked 
up  at  their  entrance,  but  remained  gazing  vacantly  out, 
and  slowly  and  continually  wringing  her  hands.  A  paUid 
and  faded  creature  with  dim.  fair  hair,  cut  short  like  a 
child's  and  streaking  her  furrowed  forehead  ;  a  thin  W/in 
face,  pitiable  in  its  quiet  hopelessness,  the  light-l)lue  eyes 
vacant  and  dull,  and  the  poor  fingers  she  twisted  con- 
tinually, nothing  but  skin  and  bone.  Yet,  as  Colonel 
Shirley  looked,  his  thoughts  went  back  to  a  certain  stormy 
night,  eighteen  years  before,  when  a  pretty,  fair-haired 
woman  had  kissed  and  cried  over  his  little  child  ;  and  he 
recognized  this  faded  shadow  instantly.  The  doctor  went 
over,  and  patted  her  lightly  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Mrs.  Wildman,  m/  dear,  look  round.  Here  is  a  gen- 
tleman come  to  see  you." 

The  woman  turned  her  pale,  pinched  face,  and  looked 
up  in  a  hopeless  sort  of  way,  i.n  the  pitying  eyes  of  t  e 
Indian  officer. 

"  Have  you  brought  htif  }fgi^kf  "  she  as-k-ed  mourn  1 
"  She  sent  her  away  ;  wy  iUifk  i^^bara  ;  my  only  c^.. 
my  only  child  !  " 

"  She  keeps  that  up  continually','"  said  the  doctor, 
an  intelligent  nod  to  the  colonel.      '  "^(^JOdy  ever 
get  anything  out  of  her  but  that." 

"I  wish  you  would  bring  her  back  to  rri^  f"  #i  '1  the 
imbecile,  still  looking  in  the  same  hopeless  way  '  lief 
visitor.  "She  sent  her  away — my  little  Barbara — aid  I 
loved  her  so  much  !     Do  go  and  bring  her  back  !  " 

The  colonel  sat  down  beside  her  and  took  one  of  the 
wasted  hands  in  his,  with  a  look  that  was  infinitely  kind 
and  gentle. 

* '  Who  was  it  sent  her  away — your  little  Barbara  ?  " 
18 


th 
an 


; 


\ 


f  , 


ll' 


k  i 


•{l 


: 

\3 


"h'I 


274 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


"She  did!  The  one  she  kept  was  the  gentleman's 
child,  and  it  was  always  crying-  and  troublesome,  and 
not  kind  and  good  like  my  little  Barbara.  I  wish  you 
would  go  and  bring  her  back.  It  is  so  lonesome  here 
without  her ;  and  she  was  my  only  child,  my  only 
child  !  " 

"I  told  you  so,"  said  the  doctor,  with  another  nod. 
"You  won't  get  her  beyond  that  if  you  keep  at  her  till 
doomsday  !  " 

"  Where  did  she  send  her  to  ?  "  asked  the  colonel ;  but 
the  woman  only  looked  at  him  vacantly. 

"She  sent  her  away,"  she  repeated,  "and  kept  the 
gentleman's  child — the  tall  gentleman  that  was  so  hand- 
some, and  gave  me  the  money.  But  she  sent  away  my 
little  Barbara  ;  my  only  child,  my  only  child  !  Oh  ! 
won't  somebody  go  and  bring  her  I  ask?  " 

The  colonel  bent  ovf^r  ner,  took  her  oti)er  hand,  and 
looked  steadfastly  into  the  dull  eyes. 

"  Mrs.  Wildman,  do  you  not  know  me  .?  1  am  the  gen- 
tleman who  left  the  child." 

She  looked  at  hi;"  "''lently ;  but  her  gaze  was  listless 
and  without  meaning. 

"  Your  little  Barbara  has  grown  up — is  a  young  lady, 
bea'itiful  and  accomplished — do  you  understand  .?  " 

Mo  ;  she  did  not.  She  only  turned  away  her  eyes  with 
a  little  weary  sigh,  very  sad  to  hear,  and  murmured  over 


aG:ain 


"Oh!  I  wish  somebody  would  bring  her  back!  She 
was  my  only  child,  my  only  child  !  " 

"  It's  all  useless,"  interposed  the  doctor.  "No  earthly 
power  will  ever  get  her  beyond  that.  Hers  is  a  case  quite 
harmless  and  quite  hopeless." 

Colonel  Shirley  arose,  and  pressed  somc<hing  he  took 
out  of  his  waistcoat-pocket  into  the  doctor's  hand. 

"  Be  good  to  her,  Doctor.      Poor  creatui  •  !  " 

"Thank  you,  Colonel,"  said  the  doctor,  glancing  with 
infinite  complacency  at  the  bar.k-note  for  fifty  pounds. 
"She  shall  have  the  best  of  care.  Perhaps  you  would 
like  to  go  over  the  whole  establishment.?  " 

"  Not  to-day,  I  think.  We  must  catch  the  two  o'clock 
train  back  to  London." 

The  doctor  led  the  way  downstairs,  and  bowed  them 
obsequiously  out. 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


■7!, 


jntleman's 

some,  and 

wish  you 

some  here 

my  only 

other  nod. 
»  at  her  till 

lie n el ;  but 

d  kept  the 
IS  so  hand- 
:  away  my 
ild  !      Oh  ! 

hand,  and 
m  the  gen- 
was  listless 

oung  lady, 
id  ? '' 
eyes,  with 
mured  over 

3ack  !     She 

No  earthly 
1  case  quite 

iiir  he  took 
d. 

ncing  with 

;y   [)  amds. 
you  would 

two  o'clock 

)wed  them 


Only  one  sentence  was  spoken  as  they  drove  rapidly 
dov/n  to  the  depot. 

"Poor  thing!  she  is  greatly  changed,  but  looks  like 
Miss — Vivia,"  Mr.  Sweet  had  said,  and  had  received  a 
look  in  answer  that  effectually  silenced  him  for  the  rest 
of  the  way. 

Next  day,  when  the  early  afternoon  train  from  London 
came  steaming  into  Cliftonlea,  Colonel  Shirley  and  Mr. 
Sweet  got  out  and  walked  up  to  the  town.  The  latter 
gentleman  speedily  turned  oft  in  the  direction  of  his  own 
house,  and  the  colonel  walked  with  a  grave  face  up  High 
Street,  turning  neither  to  the  right  nor  the  left,  until  ha 
stood  knocking  at  the  principal  entrance  of  the  town  jail. 
The  turnkey  who  opened  it  opened  his  eyes,  too  ;  for, 
during  the  two  months  his  young  relative  had  been  a- 
lodger  there,  the  colonel  had  not  come  once  to  visit 
him. 

All  Cliftonlea  was  in  a  state  of  ferment ;  for  the  assizes 
were  on,  and  Tom  Shirley's  trial  would  begin  to-^^orrovi'  ; 
and  setting  his  visit  down  to  this  cause,  th  :  nkey 
admitted  him. 

There  was  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  the  desired  inter- 
view, and  in  a  few  minutes  a  ponderous  key  was  turning 
in  a  ponderous  lock,  a  strong  door  swung  open,  the  col- 
onel was  in  the  prison  cell,  listening  to  the  re-locking  of 
the  door  without,  and  the  retreating  steps  of  the  jailer. 

The  cell  was  as  dismal  as  could  be  desired,  and  as 
empty  of  furniture,  holding  but  a  bed,  a  chair,  and  a  table  ; 
but  the  August  sunshine  came  just  as  brightly  through 
the  little  grated  square  of  light  as  it  did  through  the  plate- 
glass  of  Castle  Cliffe,  and  lay  broad,  and  bright,  and 
warm  on  the  stone  floor. 

The  prisoner  sat  beside  the  table,  reading  a  little  book 
bound  in  gold  and  purple  velvet,  that  looked  odd  enough 
in  the  dreary  cell.  It  was  a  gift,  prized  hitherto  for  the 
sake  of  the  giver — a  little  French  testament,  with  "To 
Cousin  Tom,  with  Vivia's  love,"  written  in  a  delicate 
Italian  hand  on  the  fly-leaf  ;  but  of  late  days  Tom  had 
learned  to  prize  it  for  a  sake  far  higher. 

He  rose  at  sight  of  his  visitor,  looking  very  thin,  very 
pale,  very  quiet,  and  both  stood  gazing  at  each  other  for 
a  few  seconds   in  silence. 

*•  Is  it  really  Colonel  Shirley  ?  "  said  Tom,  at  last,  with 


\\ 


I;l'i  ti 


] 


m 


276 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


just  a  shade  of  snrcasm  in  his  ione.  "This  is  indeed  an 
uncx|:iGcted  honor." 

"  You  do  not  need  to  ask,  Tom,  why  I  have  never  been 
here  before,"  saad  the  colonel,  whose  face,  always  pale 
lately,  had  grown  even  a  shade  paler. 

"  vScarcely.  Do  mc  the  honor  to  be  seated,  and  let  me 
know  to  what  I  am  indebted  for  this  visit." 

He  presented  his  chair  with  formal  politeness  as  he 
spoke  ;  but  his  visitor  only  availed  himself  of  it  to  lean 
one  hand  lightly  on  its  back  and  the  other  on  the  young 
man's  shoulder. 

"Tom,"  he  said,  looking  earnestly  and  searchingly  at 
him,  "I  have  come  here  to  ask  you  one  question,  and  I 
want  you  to  answer  it  truthfully  before  God  !  Are  you 
innocent  .<*  " 

"  It  is  late  to  ask  that  question,"  said  Tom,  disdain- 
fully. 

"Answer  it,  Tom  !  " 

*   Excuse  me,  sir.     The  very  question  is  an  insult." 

"Tom,  for  Heaven's  sake,  do  not  stand  balancing  hairs 
witi.  me  !  You  always  were  the  soul  of  honor  and  can- 
dor, and,  late  as  it  is,  if  you  will  only  tell  me,  in  the  face 
of  Heaven,  you  are  innocent,  I  will  believe  you." 

Tom's  honest  black  eyes,  that  never  quailed  before 
mortal  man,  r  .se  boldly  and  truthfully  to  the  speaker's 
face. 

"Before  Heaven,"  he  said,  solemnly  raising  his  arm 
and  dropping  it  on  the  purple  book,  "as  I  shall  have  to 
answer  to  God,  I  am  innocent !  " 

"  Enough  !  "  said  the  colonel,  taking  his  hand  in  a  firm 
grasp.  "I  believe  you,  with  all  my  heart!  My  dear 
boy,  forgive  me  for  ever  thinking  you  guilty  for  a 
moment." 

"Don't  ask  it!  How  could  you  help  thinking  me 
guilty,  in  the  face  of  all  this  circumstantial  evidence? 
But  sit  down,  and  let  me  look  at  you.  It  is  good  to  see 
a  friend's  face  again.  You  have  been  getting  thin  and 
pale,  colonel." 

"lam  afraid  I  must  return  the  compliment.  I  see 
only  the  shadow  of  the  ruddy,  boisterous  Tom  Shirley  of 
old." 

Tom  smiled  and  pushed  back  in  a  careless  way  his  ex- 
uberant black  curls. 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


^11 


indeed  an 

ever  been 
vays  pale 

md  let  me 

ess  as  he 
;  it  to  lean 
the  young 

chingly  at 

lion,  and  I 

Are  you 

m,  disdain- 


insult." 
incing  hairs 
lor  and  can- 
,  in  the  face 

ou. " 

iled  before 
e  speaker's 

mg  his  arm 
liall  have  to 

ind  in  a  firm 
!  My  dear 
guilty   for  a 

thinking  me 
d  evidence? 
good  to  see 

^ng  thin  and 

lent.     I  see 
Shirley  of 

way  his  ex- 


"  Nothing  very  odd  "n  that,  sir.  Solitude  and  prison 
fare  are  not  the  best  things  1  ever  heard  of  for  putting  a 
man  in  good  condition.      How  goes  the  world  outside?  " 

"  Much  as  usual.      Have  you  no  visitors,  then  ?  " 

"  None  to  speak  of.  A  few  mere  acquaintances  came 
out  of  curiosity,  but  I  declined  to  see  them  ;  and  as  my 
friends,"  said  Tom,  with  another  smile  that  had  very 
much  of  sadness  in  it,  "  thought  me  guilty,  and  held  aloof, 
I  have  been  left  pretty  much  to  my  own  devices." 

"  Your  trial  comes  on  to-morrow  ?  " 

"It  does." 

"You  have  engaged  counsel,  of  course  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  one  of  the  best  advocates  in  Kngland.  But  his 
anticipations,  I  am  afraid,  are  not  over  brilliant." 

"The  evidence  is  very  strong,  certainly,  although 
merely  circumstantial,  but " 

"But  better  men  than  I  have  been  condemned  on 
circumstantial  evidence.  I  know  it,"  said  Tom,  very 
quietly. 

"  What  do  you  anticipate  yourself?  " 

"Unless  Providence  should  interpose  and  send  the  real 
murderer  forward  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it,  I  antici- 
pate a  very  speedy  termination  of  my  mortal  cares." 

"And  you  can  speak  of  it  like  this  !  You  are  indeed 
changed,  Tom." 

"Colonel,"  said  Tom,  gravely,  "when  a  man  sits 
within  four  stone  walls  like  this  for  two  months,  with 
a  prospect  of  death  before  him,  he  must  be  somctliing 
more  than  human  not  to  change.  I  have  had  at  least 
one  constant  visitor,  the  bishop  ;  and  though  I  am  per- 
fectly certain  he  believes  me  guilty,  he  has  done  me 
good  ;  and  this  small  book  has  helped  the  work.  Had 
I  anything  to  bind  me  very  strongly  to  life,  it  would  be 
different ;  but  there  is  nothing  much  in  the  outer  world 
I  care  for,  and  so,  let  the  result  be  what  it  may,  I  think  I 
shall  meet  it  quietly.  If  one  had  a  choice  in  so  delicate 
a  matter" — with  another  smile —  "I  might,  perhaps,  pre- 
fer a  different  mode  of  leaving  this  world  ;  but  what  can't 
be  cured — you  know  the  proverb.  Don't  let  us  talk  of  it. 
How  is  Lady  Agnes  ?  " 

"Well  m  body,  but  ill  in  mind.     She  is  shut  up  in  her 
room,  and  I  never  see  her." 
And  Margaret  ?  " 


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WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


"  Margaret  followed  her  example.     Sir  Roland  is  laid 

up  a^^ain  with  the  gout  at  Cliftonvvood. " 

"Castle  Cliffc  must  be  a  dreary  place.  I  wonder  you 
can  stay  there." 

"1  shall  be  there  but  a  short  time  now.  My  old  regi- 
ment is  ordered  abroad  for  active  service,  and  as  soon  as 
yowT  trial  is  ()\'er,  1  shall  rejoin  it." 

Tom's  eyes  li,!;hted,  his  face  flushed  hotly,  and  then 
turned  to  its  former  pale  and  sickly  color. 

"Oh,  that  I '  he  began,  and  then  stopped  short. 

But  he  was  understood. 

"  I  wish  to  Heaven  it  were  possible,  Tom  ;  but,  what- 
ever happens,  we  must  content  ourselves  with  the  cry  of 
ihc  old  crusaders,  'God  wills  it!'  You  must  learn,  as 
we  all  have  to,  the  great  lesson  of  life — endurance." 

Poor  Tom  had  begun  the  lesson,  but  his  face  showed 
that  he  found  the  rutliments  very  bitter. 

The  colonel  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then,  looking  at 
the  tloor,  went  on,  in  a  more  subdued  tone  : 

"  Somebody  else  is  learning  it  too,  in  the  solitude  of  a 
French  convent — Vivia." 

Tom  gave  a  little  start  at  the  unexpected  sound  of  that 
name,  and  the  flush  came  back  to  his  face. 

"You  have  heard  from  her,  then  }  " 

"I  have  done  better — I  have  seen  her.  A  shadow,  a 
spirit,  came  behind  the  convent  grating,  and  shook  hands 
with  me  through  it.  .She  was  so  wan  and  wasted,  with 
fasting  and  vigils,  I  suppose,  that  I  scarcely  knew  her, 
and  we  talked  for  fifteen  minutes,  with  the  frate  between 
us.      Satisfactory — was  it  not?  " 

"  Yery.      Has  she  taken  the  veil?" 

"Not  yet.  No  tluniks  to  her,  though.  It  was  her 
•wish  ;  but  the  superior,  knowing  it  was  merely  the  na- 
tural revulsion  of  feeling,  and  that  she  had  no  settled  in- 
clination, would  not  jK'rnnt  it.  Then  Vivia  wished  to  go 
out  as  a  governess — think  of  that  !  But  Mother  Ursula 
would  not  hear  of  that,  either.  She  is  to  make  the  con- 
vent her  home  for  a  year,  and  if,  at  the  end  of  that  time, 
she  still  desires  it,  she  will  be  permitted  to  enter  upon  her 
novitiate.  I  vrill  go  by  Paris,  and  see  her  again  before  1 
depart  to  join  my  regiment." 

' '  Does  she  know " 

Tom  paused. 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


279 


id  is  laid 

)nder  you 

'  old  rcgi- 
,s  soon  as 

and  then 

[  short. 

jut,  what- 
the  cry  of 
learn,  as 
lice, 
e  showed 

looking  at 

litude  of  a 

nd  of  that 


"She  knows  all.     She  gave  me  this  for  you." 
The  colonel  produced  his  pocket-hook,  and  teok  from 
between  the  leaves  a  little  twisted  note. 
Tom  opened  it,  and  read  : 

"  !\Iy  PiKOTiiKR  : — I  know  you  are  innocent.  I  love  you, 
anil  pray  for  you  every  night  and  day.  God  keep  you 
always  !  Vivia.  " 

Thnt  was  all. 

Tom  dropjied  his  face  on  the  tahle,  without  a  word. 

Colonel  Shirley  looked  at  him  an  instant,  then  arose. 

"  I  shall  leave  you  now.  ReiniMiiher,  I  have  firm  faith 
in  your  innocence  from  henceforth.  Keep  up  a  good 
heart,  and  until  to-morrow,  farewell." 

He  pressed  his  hand. 

Ikit  Tom  neither  spoke  nor  looked  up  ;  and  the  colonel 
went  out  and  left  him  with  his  head  lying  on  the  wooden 
table  and  the  tiny  note  still  crushed  in  his  hand. 


[shadow,  a 

00k  hands 

listed,  with 

knew  her, 

e  between 


It  was   her 

■ly  the  na- 
settled  in- 
Ishcd  to  go 
Iher  Ursula 
the  con- 
that  time, 
Ir  upon  her 
in  before  1 


CHAPTER  XXX. 


THE   SENTENCE. 


At  dav-dawn  next  morning  Cliftonlea  was  all  bustle 
and  stir  ;  and  at  ten  o  clock  the  court-house  was  a  perfect 
jam.  There  were  troops  of  people  down  from  London, 
who  knew  the  Shirleys  ;  swarms  of  newspajier  reporters, 
note-book  and  pencil  in  hand,  noi  to  speak  of  half  the 
county  besides.  The  gallery  was  tilled  with  ladies,  and 
among  them  glided  in  one  in  a  long  shrouding  mantle, 
and  wearing  a  thick  veil  ;  but  people  knew  the  white  face 
of  Margaret  Shirley,  despite  any  disguise. 

The  colonel  was  there,  and  so  was  Sir  Roland ;  and  so 
was  Joe,  the  gamekeeper's  son,  looking  scared  beyond 
everything,  and  full  of  the  vague  notion  that  he  stood  in 
as  much  danger  of  hanging,  himself,  as  the  prisoner. 

The  prisoner  did  not  look  at  all  alarmed  ;  he  sat  in  the 
dock,  as  he  had  sat  in  his  cell  the  day  before,  pale,  quiet, 


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WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


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and  perfectly  calm,  scanning  the  crowd  with  his  dauntless 
black  eyes,  and  meeting  the  gaze  of  all,  known  and  un- 
known, with  the  stoicism  of  an  Indian.  Some  of  the  re- 
porters began  sketching  his  face  in  their  note-books.  Tom 
saw  it,  and  smiled  ;  and  the  crowd  set  him  down  as  a  cool 
hand,  and  a  guilty  one. 

Very  few  present  had  any  doubt  of  his  guilt — the  facts 
that  had  come  out  at  the  inquest  were  strong  against  him  ; 
and  there  was  nobody  else,  apparently,  in  the  world  who 
had  the  least  interest  in  the  death  of  the  murdered  man. 
All  knew  by  that  time  how  everything  stood — how  infat- 
uated he  had  been  with  the  young  lady,  and  iiow  madly 
jealous  he  was  of  the  accepted  lover.  And  everybody 
knew,  too,  what  jealousy  w^ill  make,  and  has  made,  the 
best  of  men  do,  from  King  David  down  ;  and  Tom's  hasty 
and  violent  temper  was  notorious.  Worst  of  all,  he  re- 
fused to  give  any  account  of  himself  whatever ;  for  the 
simple  fact  that  he  had  no  account  to  give  that  would  not 
involve  Vivia's  name  ;  and  the  tortures  of  a  martyr  would 
not  have  drawn  that  from  him  in  a  crowded  court-room. 
After  the  scene  in  the  starlight  under  the  chestnuts,  he 
had  fled  from  the  place  and  haunted  Cliftonlea  like  a  lost 
spirit.  On  the  bridal-night,  an  insane  impulse  drew  him 
back  again  with  a  relentless  hand,  and  he  had  wandered 
up  and  down  among  the  trees  almost  beside  himself,  but 
wholly  unable  to  go  away. 

Tom  could  not  very  well  have  told  his  pitiable  tale  of 
love-sickness  and  insanity  to  a  grim  judge  and  jury  ;  so 
he  just  held  his  tongue,  resolved  to  let  things  take  their 
course,  almost  indifferent  to  the  issue. 

Things  did  take  their  course.  They  always  do,  where 
those  two  inexorable  fates,  Time  and  Law,  are  in  ques- 
tion. The  case  was  opened  in  a  brilliant  speech  by  the 
counsel  for  the  crown,  that  told  hard  on  the  prisoner,  and 
then  the  witnesses  were  called.  Joe  came  in  requisition, 
and  so  did  Mr.  Sweet  s  Elizabeth  ;  and  it  would  be  hard 
to  say  which  of  the  two  was  the  more  terrified,  or  which 
cried  the  more  before  they  were  sent  down.  Mr.  Sweet 
had  to  give  evidence,  so  had  Colonel  Shirley,  so  had  Sir 
Roland,  so  had  the  doctor,  so  had  the  gamekeeper,  so  had 
a  number  of  other  people,  whom  one  would  think  had 
nothing  to  do  with  it.  And  at  three  o'clock  the  court  ad- 
journed, leaving  things  pretty  much  as  they  were  before  ; 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


281 


launtless 
and  un- 
)f  the  re- 
s.  Tom 
as  a  cool 

-the  facts 
iiist  him ; 
orUl  who 
;red  man. 
lovv  infat- 
3\v  madly 
jverybody 
made,  the 
)m's  hasty 
all,  he  re- 
r;  for  the 
would  not 
rtyr  would 
ourt-room. 
estnuts,  he 
like  a  lost 
drew  him 
wandered 
[imself,  but 

ible  tale  of 

Id  jury  ;  so 

lake  their 

do,  where 
Ire  in  ques- 
tech  by  the 
[isoner,  and 
requisition, 
lid  be  hard 
I,  or  which 
Mr.  Sweet 
so  had  Sir 
[per,  so  had 
,  think  had 
ie  court  ad- 
fere  before ; 


the  prisoner  was  remanded  back  to  his  cell :  the  mob 
went  home  to  their  dinners,  and  to  assert  confidently  that 
before  lons^  there  would  be  an  execution  in  Clifton  lea. 

The  trial  lasted  three  days  ;  and  with  each  passing  one 
the  iiitorcst  grew  deeper,  and  the  case  more  and  more 
hopeless.  Every  day  the  crowd  in  and  around  the  court- 
house grew  more  dense  ;  and  always  the  first  on  the 
ground  was  the  shrinking  figure  of  the  veiled  lady.  But 
on  the  third  day,  just  as  the  case  was  drawing  to  a  close, 
something  happened  that  settled  the  last  doubt  in  the 
minds  of  the  jury,  if  such  a  thing  as  a  doubt  had  ever 
rested  there.  A  woman  who  had  made  her  way  through 
the  crowd  by  dint  of  sharp  elbows  and  sharper  tongue, 
and  had  taken  her  place  on  the  witness-stand,  in  a  very 
determined  and  excited  state  of  mind.  The  woman  was 
Jeannette,  who  had  followed  her  young  lady  to  France, 
and  had  evidently  just  come  back  from  that  delightful 
land  ;  and  on  informing  them  she  had  taken  a  long  jour- 
ney to  give  important  evidence,  she  was  sworn,  and 
asked  what  she  had  to  say. 

Jeannette  had  a  good  deal  to  say,  chiefly  in  parenthesis, 
with  a  strong  French  accent,  a  great  many  Mon  Dieus, 
and  no  punctuation  marks  to  speak  of  It  appeared, 
however,  when  the  evidence  was  shorn  of  all  French  em- 
bellishment, that  on  the  night  the  deceased  had  returned 
from  London  (a  couple  of  days  before  the  one  fixed  for 
the  wedding).  Miss  Vivia  had  been  wandering  alone  in 
the  park,  where  she  was  suddenly  joined  by  the  prisoner. 
She,  Jeannette,  had  followed  her  young  lady  out  to  warn 
her  against  night-dews,  when  hearing  a  loud  and  angry 
voice,  she  halted,  discreetly,  at  a  distance,  with  the  true 
instinct  of  her  class,  to  listen.  There  she  had  overheard 
the  prisoner  making  very  loud  and  honest  protestations 
of  love  to  Miss  Shirley,  and  when  rejected,  and  assured 
by  her  she  would  marry  none  but  Mr.  Cliffe,  he  had  burst 
out  in  such  a  way,  that  she,  Jeannette,  was  scared  pretty 
nearly  into  fits,  and  she  was  perfectly  sure  she  had  heard 
him  threaten  to  murder  the  bridegroom-elect.  Made- 
moiselle Jeannette  further  informed  her  audience  that,  be- 
lieving the  prisoner  guilty,  her  conscience  would  not  let 
her  keep  the  matter  secret,  and  it  had  sent  her  across  the 
channel,  in  spite  of  sea-sickness,  unknown  to  her  young 
lady,  to  unburden  her  mind. 


282 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


S    r- 


\\  . 


i: 


fffL 


It  was  hard  evidence  ag^ainst  the  prisoner  ;  and  though 
Mademoiselle  underwent  a  galling  cross-examination,  her 
testimony  could  not  be  shaken,  though  it  left  her,  as  it 
well  might,  in  a  very  wild  and  hysterical  state  of  mind  at 
its  close. 

Colonel  Shirley,  standing  near  Tom,  stooped  down  in 
dismay,  and  whispered  : 

"Have  you  anything  to  say  to  all  this?  " 

"Nothing;  it  is  perfectly  true." 

* '  Then  your  case  is  hopeless. " 

"  It  has  been  hopeless  all  along, "said  Tom,  quietly,  as 
Mademoiselle  Jeannette  descended,  trembling  with  excite- 
ment because  of  the  cross-examination  she  had  under- 
gone. 

There  was  nothing  more  to  be  done.  The  evidence 
was  summed  up  in  one  mighty  mass  against  the  prisoner, 
and  the  jury  retired  to  find  a  verdict.  It  was  not  hard  to 
find.  In  five  minutes  they  were  back,  and  the  swaying 
and  murmuring  of  the  crowd  subsided  into  an  &wful  hush 
of  expectation  as  the  foreman  arose. 

"Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  is  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  guilty 
or  not  guilty  of  the  felony  with  which  he  is  charged  ? " 

And  solemnly  the  answer  came,  what  everybody  knew 
it  would  be  : 

"Guilty!  my  lord." 

The  judge  arose  with  his  black  cap  on  his  head.  His 
address  to  the  prisoner  was  eloquent  and  touching,  and 
the  crowd  seemed  to  hush  their  very  heart-beating  tolisten. 
There  were  tears  in  his  eyes  before  he  had  done  ;  and  his 
voice  was  tremulous  as  he  closed  with  the  usual  ghastly 
formula. 

"Your  sentence  is,  that  you  be  taken  hence  to  the 
place  whence  you  came,  thence  to  the  place  of  execution, 
to  be  hanged  by  the  neck  till  dead,  and  may  God  have 
mercy  on  your  sc  ul  !  " 

He  sat  clown,  but  the  same  dead  silence  reigned  still. 
It  was  broken  at  last  by  a  sound  common  enough  at  such 
times — a  veiled  lady  in  the  gallery  had  fallen  forward  in 
a  dead  swoon. 


IVEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


283 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  WHEEL. 


It  was  a  wild  night  on  the  Sussex  coast.  A  north  wind 
roared  over  the  channel — a  terrible  north  wind,  that 
shrieked,  and  raved,  and  lashed  the  waves  into  white  fury  ; 
that  tore  up  trees  by  the  roots,  blew  off  tall  steeples,  and 
filled  the  air  with  a  shower  of  tiles  and  chimney-pots,  and 
demolished  frailer  buildino^s  altogether.  A  terrible  night 
in  Cliftonlea — the  oldest  inhabitant  had  never  remembered 
anything  like  it.  A  terrible  night  in  Lower  Cliffe,  where 
nobody  thought  of  going  to  bed  at  all  ;  for  the  dreadful 
roaring  of  the  storm  and  the  cannonading  of  the  rising 
sea  on  the  shore  seemed  to  threaten  entii  j  destruction  to 
the  little  village  before  morning.  A  terrible  night  within 
the  park,  where  tall  trees  of  a  century's  growth  were  torn  up 
and  flung  aside  like  straws.  A  terrible  night  even  within 
the  strong  walls  of  the  old  castle,  wheiethe  great  kitchen, 
and  the  servant's  hall,  and  butler's  pantry,  and  the  house- 
keeper's room  were  filled  with  terrified  footmen  and  house- 
maids ;  where  Lady  Agnes  shivered  as  she  listened  to  it 
in  the  ghostly  solitude  of  her  own  room  ;  where  Margaret 
woke  up,  cowering  and  shuddering  from  the  stupor  in 
which  she  lay,  and  covered  her  eyes  from  the  lightning, 
and  wondered  how  the  condemned  man  bore  it  in  his 
prison  cell. 

He,  sitting  reading  by  the  light  of  a  flaring  tallow  candl<^ 
in  a  little  gold  and  purple  book,  lifted  his  pale  and  quiet 
face,  and  listened  to  it  much  more  calmly  than  any  of 
them. 

Much  more  calmly  than  Colonel  Shirley,  paci'ig  up  and 
down  in  his  own  room,  as  the  midnight  hour  was  striking, 
like  an  uneasy  ghost.  It  was  a  splendid  room — splendid 
in  green  velvet  and  malachite,  with  walnut  paneling  and 
wainscotting,  the  furniture  of  massive  mahogany,  up- 
holstered in  green  billiard-cloth,  and  the  bed-hangings  of 
green  velvet  and  white  satin.     The  same  sober  tints  of 


V  i  < 


I 


! 
1 


1 


284 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


%^ 


' 


green  and  brown  were  repeated  in  the  medallion  carpet ; 
a  buhl  clock  ticked  on  the  carved  walnut  mantel,  and 
over  it  a  bright  portrait  of  Vivia  looked  down  and  smiled. 

There  was  a  small  armory  on  one  side,  full  of  Damas- 
cus swords,  daggers,  and  poniards,  pistols  and  muskets, 
eel-spears,  bows  and  arrows,  and  riding-whips,  all  flash- 
ing in  the  light  of  a  bright  wood-fire  burning  on  the  marble 
hearth  ;  for  though  the  month  was  August,  these  grand, 
vast  old  rooms  were  always  chilly,  and  on  this  tempes- 
tuous night  particularly  so.  A  round  table,  on  which 
burned  two  wax  candles,  was  drawn  up  before  the  fire, 
and  covered  over  with  ledgers,  check-books,  and  packages 
of  fresher-looking  documents  tied  up  with  red  tape.  A 
green  cushioned  arm-chair  stood  on  either  side  of  the 
table,  and  though  they  were  empty  now,  they  had  not 
been  a  couple  of  hours  previously. 

In  the  first  train  to-morrow  morning  Colonel  Shirley 
was  leaving  Cliftonlea,  perhaps  forever,  and  going  where 
glory  led  him  ;  and  he  and  INIr.  Sweet  had  had  a  very 
busy  afternoon  and  evening  in  settling  the  complicated 
accounts  of  the  estate.  They  had  finished  about  ten, 
and  Mr.  Sweet  had  gone  home,  despite  the  rising  storm 
which  was  now  at  its  height  ;  and  ever  since  the  colonel 
had  been  walking  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  anxiously 
impatient  for  the  morning  that  was  to  see  him  off. 

It  was  the  evening  that  had  concluded  Tom  Shirley's 
trial ;  and  he,  too,  like  Margaret  was  thinking  of  him  in 
his  lonely  cell ;  and  though  the  lightning  came  blazing 
through  the  shuttered  and  curtained  windows,  and  the 
roar  of  the  storm,  the  sea,  and  the  wind  boomed  an  awful 
harmony  around  them,  he  scarcely  heeded  either  ;  and  as 
the  clock  vibrated  on  the  last  silvery  stroke  of  twelve, 
there  was  a  tap  at  the  door,  and  then  the  handle  was 
turned,  and  the  respectful  face  of  Mr.  Hurst  looked  in. 

"There's  a  man  down  below,  sir,  that  has  just  arrived, 
and  he  insists  on  seeing  you.  It  is  a  matter  of  life  or 
death,  he  says." 

The  colonel  stopped,  astonished,  in  his  walk. 

"Some  one  to  see  me  on  such  a  night  !     Who  is  he?  " 

"I  don't  know,  sir.  He  looks  like  a  sailor,  in  a  pea- 
jacket  and  a  sou'-wester  hat ;  but  the  collar  of  the  jacket 
is  turned  up,  and  the  hat  is  pulled  down,  and  there's  no 
seeing  anything  of  him  but  his  nose." 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


28s 


n  carpet  ; 
intel,  and 
id  smiled, 
of  Damas- 

muskets, 
,  all  flash- 
the  marble 
ese  grand, 
is  tempes- 

on  which 
•e  the  fire, 
d  packages 
1  tape.  A 
;ide  of  the 
2y  had  not 

iicl   Shirley 

oing  where 

had  a  very 

;ompHcated 

about  ten, 

•ising  storm 

Ithe  colonel 

,  anxiously 

otf. 

)m  Shirley's 
g  of  him  in 
me  blazing 
s,  and  the 
ed  an  awful 
ler  ;  and  as 
of  twelve, 
handle  was 
)oked  in. 
ust  arrived, 
jr  of  life  or 


ho  is  he  ?  " 
)r,  in  a  pea- 
f  the  jacket 
d  there's  no 


**  And  he  said  it  was  a  matter  of  life  or  death.  It  ought 
to  be,  certainly,  to  bring  him  out  in  a  night  like  this." 

"Yes,  sir.  He  said  he  would  see  you,  if  he  had  to 
search  the  house  over  for  you.  "  He's  a  precious  rough- 
looking  customer,  sir." 

"Show  him  up  !  "  was  the  curt  reply;  and  Mr.  Hurst 
bowed  and  withdrew. 

He  was  leaning  against  the  carved  mantel,  one  elbow 
resting  upon  it,  and  his  eyes  fixed  thoughtfully  on  the  fire, 
when  his  visitor  entered — a  somewhat  stout  and  not  very 
tall  man,  in  a  large,  rough  pea-jacket,  a  shining  hat  of  the 
sailor  pattern,  and  splashed  top-boots.  There  was  more 
of  the  man  splashed  than  his  boots,  for  he  was  dripping 
all  over  like  a  water-god;  and,  as  Mr.  Hurst  had  inti- 
mated, his  coat-collar  was  turned  up,  and  his  hat  pulled 
down,  so  that,  besides  the  nose,  nothing  was  visible  but  a 
pair  of  fierce  eyes. 

This  nocturnal  intruder  took  the  precaution  to  turn 
the  key  in  the  lock  as  soon  as  the  valet  disappeared,  and 
then  came  slowly  forward  and  stood  before  the  colonel. 

"Well,  my  friend,"  said  that  gentleman,  quietly,  "you 
wanted  to  see  me? " 

"Yes,  I  did." 

"On  a  matter  of  importance,  my  servant  said." 

"If  it  warn't  important,"  said  the  man,  gruffly,  "it 
ain't  very  likely  I'd  come  here  to  tell  it  to  you  on  a  night 
that  ain't  fit  for  a  mad  dog  to  be  out.  It's  something 
you'd  give  half  your  estates  to  learn,  Colonel  Shirley,  or 
I'm  mistaken." 

"Out  with  it,  then;  and,  in  the  meantime,  suppose 
you  sit  down." 

His  visitor  drew  up  one  of  the  green  arm-chairs  closer 
to  the  hearth,  and  dropping  into  it,  without,  however, 
removing  his  hat,  spread  out  his  splashed  top-boots  to  the 
genial  influence  of  the  hot  wood  fire.  There  was  some- 
thing familiar  about  the  man,  in  his  burly  figure,  rough 
voice,  and  fierce  eyes  ;  but  the  colonel  could  not  remem- 
ber where  he  had  seen  the  man  before  ;  and  a  long  silence 
followed,  during  which  the  man  in  the  top-boots  looked 
at  the  fire,  the  colonel  looked  at  him,  the  lightning  flashed, 
the  wind  shrieked,  and  the  portrait  of  Vivia  smiled  ^nwn 
on  all.     At  last : 

"If  you  merely  wish  to  warm  yourself,  my  friend," 


1 


!l 


286 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


'.  \ 


1^      « 


said  the  colonel,  composedly,  '  *  I  presume  there  is  a  fire 
in  the  servants'  hall.  Allow  me  to  inform  you  that  it  is 
past  twelve,  and  I  have  a  long  journey  to  commence  to- 
morrow morning." 

"You'll  commence  no  journey  to-morrow  morning  !  " 
the  man  in  the  pea-jacket  coolly  said. 

"Indeed!  Suppose,  for  politness'  sake,  you  remove 
that  hat,  and  let  me  see  the  face  of  the  gentleman  who 
makes  so  extraordinary  an  assertion." 

"Just  you  hold  on  a  minute,  and  you'll  see  my  face 
soon  enough  !  As  I  said,  it's  a  matter  of  life  or  death 
brings  me  here  ;  and  you'll  hear  it  all  in  time,  and  you 
won't  take  any  journey  to-morrow.  I've  been  fool 
enough  in  my  time.  Lord  knows,  but  I  ain't  such  a  fool 
as  to  come  out  on  such  a  night,  and  get  half  drowned,  for 
nothing." 

"Very  good  !     I  am  waiting  for  you  to  go  on." 

"There  was  a  murder  committed  here  a  couple  of 
months  ago,"  said  the  mysterious  person  in  the  pea-jacket, 
"wasn't  there?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  colonel,  with  a  slight  recoil,  as  he 
thought  that  perhaps  the  real  murderer  sat  before  him. 

"The  young  gentleman  as  was  murdered  was  Mr. 
Leicester  Cliffe  ;  and  another  young  gentleman,  Mr.'  Tom 
Shirley,  has  been  tried  and  condemned  for  the  murder? " 

"Yes." 

"  Well,"  said  the  man  in  the  pea-jacket, still  quite  coolly, 
"he  is  innocent." 

"I  know  it." 

'*  Do  you  ?  Perhaps  you  know,  too,  who's  the  guilty 
party  ? " 

"No.     Do  you?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  sai^l  me  man,  "and  that's  what  brings 
me  here  to-night." 

Again  there  was  a  pause.  The  colonel's  lips  had  turned 
white,  but  nothing  could  shake  his  stoical  composure. 
The  man  in  the  sailor's  dress  had  his  hands  on  his  knees, 
and  was  leaning  forward,  looking  up  at  him. 

"  And  who — ^but  first,  my  mysterious  friend,  before  any 
more  questions  are  asked  or  answered,  I  must  insist  on 
your  removing  that  hat,  and  showing  me  who  you  are.** 

"All  right.  It's  only  a  hanging  matter,  anyway! 
Look  here ! " 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


287 


e  is  a  fire 
that  it  13 
nence  to- 


orning 


\ 


u  remove 
man  who 

3  my  Tace 
3  or  dea^h 
J,  and  you 
been  fool 
iuch  a  fool 
owned,  for 

m." 
couple  of 
pea-jacket, 

coil,  as  he 
ore  him. 
d  was  Mr. 
n,  Mr.  Tom 
murder  ? " 

juite  coolly, 


the  guilty 


rhat  brings 

had  turned 
J  composure. 
In  his  knees, 

before  any 
ist  insist  on 
10  you  are.** 
[r,  anyway  I 


His  visitor  rose  up,  turned  down  the  collar  of  the  pea- 
jacket,  lifted  off  the  dripping  sou'-wester,  and  glared  up 
at  him  in  the  firelight  with  a  pair  of  exceedingly  green  and 
wolfish  eyes. 

"  Ah  1 "  said  the  colonel,  slowly, "  I  thought  it  was  you. 
And  you  have  come  back,  then  ? " 

"  I  have  come  back,"  said  his  visitor,  with  a  savage 
gleam  in  his  wolfish  eyes.     "I  have  come  back  to  be 

hung,  very  likely ;  but  by I'll  hang  over  and  over 

again  a  thousand  times  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him 
hang  beside  me  once !  Hunted  down  !  hunted  down  ! 
He's  been  at  it  for  the  last  six  years,  until  he's  got  me  to 
the  end  of  the  rope  at  last !  My  dog's  life  hasn't  been 
such  a  comfort  to  me.  Lord  knows,  that  I  should  care  to 
lose  it ;  but  when  I  do  hang,  he'll  hang  beside  me, 
by 1  " 

"  Have  the  goodness  to  calm  yourself,  Mr.  Black,  and 
become  intelligible.     Whom  are  you  talking  about? " 

"  My  name  ain't  Black,  and  you  know  it  !  My  name 
is  Wildman — ^Jack  Wildman,  as  was  transported  for  life  ; 
and  I  don't  care  if  the  Old  Boy  heard  it !  Who  am  I  talk- 
ing about  ?  I'm  talking  about  a  man  as  I  hate,  as  I've 
hated  for  years  ;  and  if  I  had  him  here,  I  would  tear  the 
eyes  out  of  his  head,  and  the  black  heart  out  of  his  body, 
and  dash  his  brains  out  against  this  here  wall  !  I  would, 
by  the  Eternal  I " 

The  man's  oaths  were  appalling.  The  colonel  shud- 
dered slightly  with  disgust  and  repulsion  as  he  heard  him, 
for  his  face  was  like  that  of  a  demon. 

"Will  you  come  to  the  point,  Mr.  Black,  or  Mr.  Wild- 
man,  whichever  you  choose?  You  say  you  know  the 
real  murderer  of  Leicester  Cliffe — who  is  he  ?  " 

"Him  as  I  am  talking  of — a  yellow  devil,  with  a  black 
heart,  and  his  name  is  Sweet !  " 

Colonel  Shirley  started  up,  and  grasped  the  mantel 
against  which  he  leaned. 

"  Man  I  "  he  cried,  "  what  have  you  said  ?  " 

"  I  have  said  the  truth,  and  I  can  prove  it !  That  yel- 
low dog,  that  I  would  strangle  if  I  had  him  near  me,  that 
Lawyer  Sweet — he  killed  the  young  gentleman  ;  I  saw 
him  with  my  own  eyes  !  " 

The  colonel  stood   looking  a  hundred  questions  he 


i 


1 1 1 


WH 


I  : 


288 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


could  not  speak — struck  for  the  moment  perfectly  speech- 
less. 

"Yes,  you  may  wonder,"  said  Mr.  Black,  subsiding 
into  his  chair  again,  and  letting  himself  cool  down  like 
a  bottle  of  soda-water  after  the  first  explosion;  "but 
it's  true  as  gospel.  I  saw  him  do  the  deed  myself  the 
night  of  the  wedding  ;  and  Mr.  Tom  Shirley — he  is  in- 
nocent." 

"  Tell  me  all,"  said  the  colonel,  finding  voice;  "and, 
for  Heaven's  sake,  do  it  instantly." 

"I  am  going  to.  I  have  taKcn  all  this  journey  in  the 
wind  and  rain  to-night  to  do  it  ;  and  I'll  hunt  him  down, 
as  he  has  hunted  me,  if  they  were  to  hang  me  the  next 
minute.  You  know  that  evening  I  went  away,  and  I 
don't  think  anybody  here  ever  heard  of  me  since." 

"Goon." 

'*  I  had  been  out  that  day,  and  it  was  nigh  on  to  sun- 
down when  I  came  home.  I  found  my  old  mother  on  the 
ground,  just  recovering  from  a  fit,  and  just  able  to  tell 
me  that  that  yellow  villain  had  been  with  her,  and  was 
going  to  tell  all — the  secret  he  had  kept  so  long.  That 
was  the  first  I  ever  knew  of  Barbara's  being  your  daugh- 
ter, instead  of  mine  ;  though  I  did  know  he  had  some 
power  over  the  old  woman  I  could  not  get  at  the  bottom 
of.  \f  hatever  he  may  say,  he  knowed  the  secret  all 
along  ;  and  it  was  that  made  him  marry  Barbara. 

"  From  the  time  he  met  you  in  the  grave-yard,  the 
night  you  buried  your  wife,  he  never  lost  sight  of  my 
wife  and  that  baby.  But  when  she  told  me  it  all,  and 
how  he  threatened  to  peach  about  my  being  a  returned 
convict,  I  beli  :ve  the  very  old  Satan  got  into  me,  and  I 
started  up,  and  went  out  to  find  him  and  kill  him.  They 
say  a  worm  will  turn  if  trodden  on  ;  he  had  trodden  on 
me  long  enough,  Heaven  knows  !  and  it  was  my  turn 
now.  If  I  had  met  him  in  the  middle  of  the  town,  with 
all  the  people  in  it  looking  on,  I  would  have  torn  his 
heart  out  as  I  would  a  mad  dog's.  I  would  have 
done  it  if  they  was  to  burn  me  alive  for  it  the  next 
minute. 

"As  I  got  up  near  his  house,  I  saw  him  come  out,  and 
I  hid  behind  a  tree  to  watch  him.  Before  he  got  far  he 
stopped,  and  began  watching  somebody  himself ;  it  was 
Mr.  Leicester  Cliffe,  who  came  along  High  street  without 


IV  ^DDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


tly  speech* 

,  subsiding 
down   like 

ion;  "but 
myself  the 

J — he  is  in- 


289 


ice 


and, 


irney  in  the 
him  down, 
tie  the  next 
way,  and  I 
nee. 

on  to  sun- 
other  on  the 
able  to  tell 
ler,  and  was 
long.  That 
your  daugh- 
e  had  some 
the  bottom 
le  secret  all 
)ara. 

ve-yard,  the 
ight  of  my 
it  all,  and 
a  returned 
me,  and  I 
lim.     They 
trodden  on 
as  my  turn 
town,  with 
ve  torn  his 
/ould  have 
it  the  next 

Ime  out,  and 

got  far  he 

self ;  it  was 

reet  without 


seeing  either  of  us,  and  went  in.  Then  Sweet  dodged 
round  the  back  way,  and  went  into  the  house  after  him, 
and  I  was  left  alone  waiting  behind  the  tree,  and  waiting 
for  my  game  to  come  out. 

"  I  don't  know  exactly  what  passed,  but  I  have  a  notion 
that  Mr.  Leicester  wanted  Barbara  to  run  away  with  him, 
and  that  the  yellow  viper  was  listening,  and  heard  it 
all.  It  was  nigh  onto  dark  when  Mr.  Leicester  came 
out,  and  set  off  like  a  steam-engine  toward  Lower  Cliffe, 
to  take  a  short  cut,  I  expect,  to  the  «astlc  ;  and  Sweet 
came  sneaking  after  him,  like  the  snake  in  the  grass  he 
is.  There  we  was,  a-dodging  after  each  other,  the  three 
of  us,  and  Sweet  and  me  trying  to  keep  out  of  siglit  as 
well  as  we  could, and  getting  into  alley- ways  and  behind 
trees  whenever  we  saw  anybody  coming.  There  wasn't 
many  out  to  see  us,  for  that  matter  ;  for  all  the  town,  and 
the  village,  too,  was  up  in  the  park,  and  Mr.  Leicester 
went  up  through  the  park  gates,  and  we  two  sneaked 
after  him  without  meeting  a  soul.  Instead  of  going 
straight  up  to  the  castle,  as  he'd  ought  to  do,  Mr.  Leices- 
ter turned  off  to  that  lonesome  spot  they  call  the  Nun's 
Grave  ;  and  still  we  two  was  dodging  in  through  the 
trees  after  him.  When  he  got  there  he  stopped  and  stood, 
with  his  arms  crossed,  looking  down  at  it ;  and  there 
was  that  yellow  devil  Sweet  behind  him,  and  I  could  see 
his  face  in  the  moonlight,  and  he  looked  more  like  a 
devil  than  ever.  There  was  a  club  lying  on  the  grass, 
just  as  if  Old  Nick  had  left  it  there  for  his  favorite  son — a 
big  knotted  stick,  that  would  have  xclled  an  ox  ;  and 
Sweet  he  raised  it,  his  grinning  mouth  grinning  more 
than  you  ever  saw  it,  rnd,  with  one  blow,  knocked  the 
young  gentleman  stiff  on  the  ground." 

Mr.  Black  paused  in  his  long  narration  to  turn  the  other 
side  of  his  steaming  legs  to  the  influence  of  the  blaze, 
and  to  look  up  searchingly  at  the  colonel.  But,  as  that 
gentleman  stood  as  rigid  as  the  marble  guest  in  Don 
Giovanni,  and  made  no  comment,  he  went  on  : 

"The  minute  he  did  the  deed,  as  if  he  knew  his  work 
was  finished,  he  dropped  the  club,  made  a  rush  through 
the  trees,  and  I  lost  him.  So  there  I  was  foiled  again, 
with  the  young  gentleman  lying  as  stift  as  if  he  had  been 
a  month  dead  at  my  feet.  I  shouldn't  at  all  have  minded 
being  hung  for  murdering  Sweet ;  I  wouldn't  have  cared 

19 


I 


% 


290 


WEDDED  FOR  PJ^UE. 


(' 


u 


Yi  i  ' . 


m'* 


a  curse  for  It ;  but  I  didn't  want  to  hanjj  for  a  murder  I 
hadn't  done;  so  I  took  leg  bail,  and  got  away   from  the 

f)lace,  as  he  had  done.  1  knew  Cliftonlea  would  be  too 
lot  to  hold  me  now.  I  didn't  know  but  what  that  lying 
villain  would  make  me  out  to  be  the  murderer  ;  so  my 
notion  was  to  be  off  in  the  evening  train  for  London,  and 
take  my  time  for  revenge.  Just  as  I  got  through  the 
park  gates,  whom  should  I  see  but  Barbara  on  the  beach, 
pushing  off  in  a  boat  from  the  shore.  I  sung  out  to  her, 
but  it  was  no  use  ;  she  wouldn't  stop  ;  so  I  just  swam  up 
to  her,  got  on  board,  and  asked  her  where  she  was  going. 
I  don't  know  what  she  said.  1  think  she  v/as  out  of  her 
mind  ;  but  J.  found  out  that  she  was  running  away  from 
that  villain.  Sweet — from  Cliftonlea  ;  and  then  it  struck 
me,  as  I  was  in  the  boat,  the  best  thing  I  could  do  was 
to  row  to  Lisleham,  take  the  cars  for  London  there,  and 
so  throw  folks  off  the  scent.  And  that  is  the  way  it 
happened  you  couldn't  hear  anything  from  either  of 
us." 

"  Well,"  said  the  colonel,  "  you  went  to  London  ?  " 
"  No,  we  didn't.  The  first  person  we  met  on  the  wharf 
at  Lisleham  was  an  old  chum  of  mine.  He  had  been  with 
me  from  New  South  Wales,  but  he  was  well-off  now,  and 
the  captain  of  a  schooner.  I  had  nothing  to  do  but  to 
tell  him  the  police  were  on  my  track,  and  I  was  sure  of  safe 
quarters  on  board  his  craft  until  the  heat  of  the  hunt  was 
over.  We  sailed  that  very  day  for  Dover ;  and  before 
we  were  two  hours  out,  Barbara  was  down,  raving  mad, 
with  brain  fever.  There  was  no  doctor  on  board,  and 
she  had  to  get  out  of  it  the  best  way  she  could  ;  but  we 
made  the  voyage,  stayed  awhile  in  France,  and  was  back 
in  Lisleham  long  before  she  stopped  raving  or  knew  any- 
body. I  got  some  English  papers  in  Dover,  and  there  I 
saw  all  about  the  murder  ;  I  read  how  Mr.  Tom  were  took 
up  for  it ;  and  I  knew  I  had  held  my  tongue  about  long 
enough.  I  would  have  come  posting  back  by  express, 
but  1  couldn't  leave  Barbara  alone  in  the  schooner,  and 
I  knew  I  was  time  enough.  We  got  in  two  hours  ago. 
The  schooner  is  at  anchor  out  there  now  ;  and,  in  spite 
of  the  storm,  I  came  on  shore.  And  now,  sir,  that's  the 
whole  story.  Sweet,  he's  the  murderer  ;  and  I'll  see  him 
hung  for  it,  if  I  hang  myself  beside  him." 
There  was  a  long  pause.    The  storm  seemed  to  increas* 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


291 


lid :  but  we 


to  increase 


in  fury,  and  the  uproar  without  had  become  terrific.  The 
colonel  lifted  his  head  and  listened  to  it. 

••  Barbara,  you  say,  is  in  the  schooner  ?  " 

"She  is — hut  more  like  a  ghost  or  a  skeleton,  than 
anything  living." 

"  You  are  sure  the  schooner  is  safely  anchored,  and 
not  exposed  to  the  fury  of  this  storm  ?  " 

Mr.  lilack  opened  his  mouth  to  reply  in  the  affirmative, 
when  he  was  ominously  stopped  by  the  sharp  report  of  a 
minute-gun  echoing  through  the  roar  of  the  hurricane,  and 
rapidly  followed  by  aimther  and  another. 

"  I  thought  it  would  ..me  to  that,"  said  the  colonel. 
"The  coast  in  the  morning  will  be  strewn  with  wrecks. 
I  am  going  down  to  the  siiore. " 

"All  right,"  said  Mr.  Black,  "we  can't  be  of  any  use, 
you  know  ;  but  I  have  got  cramped  with  sitting  here, 
and  want  to  stretch  my  legs  a  bit.  Heaven,  how  it's 
storming  ! " 

The  colonel  rapidly  donncc'  cap  and  overcoat,  and, 
followed  by  Mr,  Black,  left  his  bright  fire  and  pleasant 
room,  and  hastened  out  into  the  night  and  storm.  The 
sharp  report  of  the  minute-guns  still  rang  through  the 
uproar ;  but  though  they  were  met  in  the  door  by  a  rush 
of  wind  and  rain,  that  for  an  instant  beat  them  back — 
though  the  lightning  still  flashed,  and  the  thunder  rolled, 
the  storm  had  passed  its  meridian,  and  was  subsiding. 
Dawn  was  lifting  a  leaden  eye,  too,  above  the  mountains 
of  black  cloud,  and  lighting  up  with  a  pale  and  ghastly 
glimmer  the  black  and  foam-crested  sea  and  the  storm- 
beaten  earth. 

Long  before  they  reached  the  shore  in  the  lashing 
tempest,  the  mournful  minute-guns  had  ceased  their 
signal  for  help,  and  the  vessel,  whatever  it  was,  must 
inevitably  have  sunk  with  all  its  crew.  Despite  the  wind, 
and  rain,  and  lightning,  the  shore  was  lined,  when  they 
reached  it,  by  the  fishermen,  and  thrown  up  high  on  the 
shingly  beach,  were  broken  spars,  fragments  of  wreck, 
and,  most  ghastly  sight  of  all,  the  stark  bodies  of  drowned 
men.  A  crowd  had  collected  in  one  spot  around  a  man 
who,  it  turned  out,  was  the  only  survivor,  and  who  was 
telling  the  story  of  the  disaster,  as  the  new-comers  came 
up. 

'  *  We  were  scudding  along  like  old  Nick  in  a  gale  ot 


f 


.  Mm 


29: 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


wind,"  the  man  was  saying,  "our  spars  snapped  off  like 
knitting-needles,  when  we  run  afoul  of  the  other  craft, 
smashed  her  like  an  egg-shell,  and  down  she  went,  head 
foremost,  like  a  stone." 

A  shrill  screech  from  Mr.  Black,  and  off  he  darted  like 
one  possessed.  Something  had  just  been  washed  ashore, 
something  his  quick  eye  had  caught,  and  over  which  he 
was  bending  now  with  a  face  as  ghastly  as  that  of  the 
drowned  men.  With  an  awful  presentiment,  the  colonel 
followed  him,  and  his  presentiment  was  realized  to  its 
utmost  extent  of  horror.  In  the  ooze  and  mud  of  the 
beach,  her  long  hair  streaming  around  her,  her  soaking 
dress  clinging  to  her  slender  form,  lay  the  drowned  heiress 
of  Castle  Cliffe,  with  her  face  in  the  loathsome  slime. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 


F.ETRIBUTION. 


Man  proposes,  but  God  disposes  !  Colonel  Shirley  was 
not  the  only  one  who  had  intended  starting  on  a  journey 
that  morning,  and  was  doomed  to  disappointment.  Mr. 
Sylvester  Sweet,  having  settled  all  the  affairs  of  the  estate, 
and  having  nothing  to  do  for  the  next  month  or  two, 
intended,  in  his  bereavement,  to  give  himself  a  long 
holiday,  and  to  go  post-haste  to  Paris.  Perhaps,  too, 
bc'ng  such  an  uncommonly  tender-hearted  gentleman, 
he  did  not  wish  to  stay  to  witness  the  execution  of  his 
young  friend,  Tom  Shirley.  Or,  perhaps  he  was  anxious 
to  drown  his  grief  for  the  recent  loss  of  his  wife  in  the 
delights  of  that  delightful  city. 

At  all  events,  whatever  his  motive,  Mr.  Sweet  was 
going  on  a  journey,  and  was  sitting  down  to  an  early 
breakfast  in  the  back  parlor.  Most  elaborately  was  he 
got  up  :  always  radiant,  he  was  considerably  more  so 
this  morning  than  ever  ;  his  buff  waistcoat  had  the  gloss  of 
spick-span  newness,  his  breastpin  and  studs  were  dazzling, 
the  opal  rings  he  wore  on  his  fingers  made  you  wink, 
his  pocket-handkerchief  was  of  the  brightest  yellow  China 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


293 


»ped  off  like 
other  craft, 
went,  head 

darted  like 
hed  ashore, 
er  which  he 
that  of  the 
the  colonel 
ilized  to  its 
mud  of  the 
her  soaking 
vned  heiress 
le  slime. 


Shirley  was 
|on  a  journey 
tment.     Mr. 
lof  the  estate, 
iith  or  two, 
self  a  long 
erhaps,   too, 
gentleman, 
ution  of  his 
Iwas  anxious 
wife  in  the 

Sweet  was 
I  to  an  early 
tely  was  he 
Dly  more  so 
L  the  gloss  of 
sre  dazzling, 
you  wink, 
[■ellovf  China 


silk,  his  Malacca  cane  had  a  gold  head,  his  canary-col- 
ored gloves  were  -^s  new  as  his  waistcoat,  and  his  watch- 
chain  with  its  glistening  ornaments,  his  yellow  whiskers 
and  hair,  and  white  teeth  gleamed  out  with  more  than 
ordinary  brilliance,  and  his  smile  was  so  bland  and  de- 
bonair, it  would  have  done  your  heart  good  to  sec  it.  He 
had  so  far  recovered  from  his  late  bereavement  that  he 
laughed  a  little  silvery  laugh  as  he  sat  down  to  breakfast 
— whether  at  it,  or  at  his  own  cleverness,  or  at  his  ex- 
pected two  months'  holiday,  would  be  hard  to  say.  So 
he  was  sitting,  pleasantly  sipping  his  coffee,  and  eating 
"his  eggs  and  rolls,  when  the  door-bell  rang  sharply  ;  and 
two  minutes  after.  Colonel  Shirley  stood  in  the  doorway 
regarding  him.     Mr.  Sweet  arose  in  a  little  surprise. 

"  Good-morning,  colonel.  This  is  an  unexpected  pleas- 
ure.    I  thought  you  were  off  in  the  six  o'clock  train  .?  " 

"  I  have  been  delayed.  Will  you  be  good  enough  to 
order  your  horse  and  ride  back  with  me  to  Castle  Cliffe  !  " 

"Certainly,  colonel  !  "But  Mr.  Sweet  hesitated  a  little, 
with  his  hand  on  the  bell-rope.  "  I  have  purchased  my 
ticket  for  London,  but  if  the  business  is  pressing " 

"It  is  most  pressing.  Order  your  horse  immedi- 
ately ! " 

Mr.  Sweet  knew  better  than  to  disobey  the  Indian 
officer  when  his  dark  eye  flashed  and  his  ''oice  rang  out 
in  that  ringing  tone  of  command;  so  he  ordered  his  horse, 
drew  on  his  overcoat,  and  substituted  buckskin  gloves  for 
the  yellow  kids,  with  a  little  disappointment  and  a  great 
deal  of  curiosity  in  his  sallow  face.  But  his  unceremon- 
ious companion  seemed  no  way  inclined  to  satisfy  curi- 
osity, and  was  in  a  mood  Mr.  Sweet  dared  not  question. 
So  they  mounted  their  horses,  and  drove  through  the  town 
as  rapidly  as  they  had  ridden  once  before,  when  on  the 
search  for  Barbara. 

The  storm  had  subsided,  the  rain  had  entirely  ceased, 
but  the  wind  still  blew  in  long,  lamentable  blasts  ;  and 
between  keeping  his  seat  in  the  saddle  and  his  hat  on  his 
head,  Mr.  Sweet  had  enough  to  do  until  Castle  Cliffe  was 
gained.  And  still,  in  grim  silence,  its  master  strode  into 
the  hall  and  into  the  morning-room,  where  that  memor- 
able inquest  had  been  held,  and  where  Mr.  Sweet  again 
found  Mr.  Channing,  the  magistrate,  and  the  head  doctor 
of  the  town. 


If 


I' 


294 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


!'l 


i?l 


115^; 


!«::;( 


t  ;! 


■V\ 


si 


Lying  on  a  long  table,  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room, 
was  something  that  looked  like  a  human  figure ;  but  it 
was  so  muffled  from  sight,  in  a  great  cloak,  that  he  could 
scarcely  tell  what  to  make  of  it.  He  turned  from  it  to  the 
others,  and  their  stern  faces  and  ominous  silence  sent  a 
sudden  and  strange  chill  to  his  heart.  Trying  to  look  easy 
and  composed,  he  pulled  out  his  watch  and  glanced  at  it. 

"  Half-past  seven  !  If  the  business  is  brief,  perhaps  1 
may  be  in  time  to  catch  the  nine  o'clock  train  yet." 

"You  need  not  trouble  yourself  about  the  nine  o'clock 
train.     You  will  not  catch  it !  "  said  the  colonel,  frigidly. 

* '  Excuse  me  !  Of  course  I  am  willing  to  wait  any  time 
you  please.  I  merely  thought  it  might  have  been  some 
unimportant  matter  we  had  forgotten  last  night.  A  ter- 
rible night  last  night,  gentlemen — was  it  not  ? " 

No  one  spoke.  Mr.  Sweet  felt  as  if  their  three  pairs  of 
eyes  were  three  pairs  of  burning-glasses  scorching  into 
his  very  skin.     At  last  the  silence  was  broken. 

"Your  wife  has  returned,  Mr.  Sweet,"  said  the  colonel, 
in  a  voice  that  thrilled  with  the  same  nameless  terror  to 
Mr.  Sweet's  inmost  heart. 

*  *  Returned  !     When — where — how  I " 
"  Last  night,  in  the  storm." 

*  ♦  Good  Heaven  !     Alone  ?  " 
"Quite  alone." 

"And  where  is  she  now?  " 

"She  is  here.     Will  you  come  and  look  at  her ? " 

He  walked  toward  the  table  whereon  the  muffled  figure 
lay.  Mr.  Sweet,  with  his  knees  knocking  together  fol- 
lowed. 

The  muffling  was  removed,  the  dead  face,  livid  and 
bruised,  the  dark  eyes  staring  wide  open,  the  white  teeth 
gleaming  behind  the  blue  lips,  as  if  she  were  grinning  up 
at  him  a  ghastly  grin. 

He  was  an  awful  sight,  and  Mr.  Sweet  recoiled  with  a 
sort  of  shriek,  and  made  a  frantic  rush  for  the  door.  But 
a  man  in  a  blue  coat  and  brass  buttons,  the  captain  of 
the  Cliftonlea  Police,  stood  suddenly  between  him  and  it, 
and  laid  his  hand  forcibly  on  his  shoulder. 

"Not  so  fast,  Mr.  Sweet.     You  are  my  prisoner." 

That  brought  Mr.  Sweet  to  his  senses  faster  than  cold 
water  or  smelling-salts.  He  stood  stock-still  and  looked 
at  the  man. 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


«95 


••What  I" 

"Just  so,  sir.  You  are  my  prisoner.  I  arrest  you  for 
the  murder  of  Leicester  Cliffe  !  " 

The  shock  was  so  sudden,  so  unexpected ;  Mr.  Sweet's 
nerves  were  so  unstrung  by  the  appalling  sight  he  had 
just  seen,  that  his  self-control  left  him.  His  sallow  face 
turned  to  a  blue  white,  his  eyes  seemed  starting  ;  he  stood 
there,  paralyzed,  glaring  at  the  man.  Then,  with  a  yell 
that  was  more  like  the  cry  of  a  wild  beast  than  anything 
human,  he  dashed  his  clenched  fist  into  the  constable's 
face,  tore  him  from  the  door,  and  rushed  out  and  into  the 
arms  of  Mr.  Peter  Black,  who  stood  airing  his  eye  at  the 
keyhole. 

There  was  another  screech,  wilder  than  the  first,  an 
appalling  volley  of  oaths,  and  then  Mr.  Black's  hand  was 
twisted  in  Mr.  Sweet's  canary-colored  necktie,  and  Mr. 
Sweet  was  black  in  the  face  and  foaming  at  the  mouth. 

Then  he  was  down,  and  Peter  Black's  knee  was  on  liis 
breast,  and  the  lawyer's  eyes  were  bursting  from  their 
sockets  and  the  blood  flowing  from  his  mouth,  nose,  and 
ears  ;  but  the  others  crowded  round,  and  were  tearing 
the  avenger  off.  Not  in  time,  however  ;  for  a  murderous 
clasp-knife,  with  which  the  returned  convict  was  wont  in 
days  gone  by  to  slice  his  bread  and  beef,  was  out,  and 
up  to  the  hilt  in  the  lawyer's  breast.  The  hot  blood 
spouted  upon  Mr.  Black's  face  as  he  withdrew  the  blade ; 
but  they  flung  him  off,  and  the  constable  lifted  the  bleed- 
ing form  from  the  ground. 

"  I  have  done  it !  "  said  Mr.  Black,  whose  own  face 
was  purple,  and  whose  teeth  were  clenched.  "I  swore 
I  would,  and  now  you  may  hang  me  as  soon  as  you 
like!" 

Both  were  brought  back  into  the  morning-room,  Mr. 
Black,  like  a  perfect  lamb,  offering  no  resistance,  and  Mr. 
Sweet  altogether  unable  to  do  so.  He  lay,  a  ghastly 
spectacle,  in  the  arms  of  the  constable,  catching  his  breath 
in  short  gasps,  and  the  life-blood  pumping  out  of  the 
wound  with  each  throb. 

"Lay  him  on  this  sofa,"  said  the  doctor,  "and  stand 
out  of  the  way  until  I  examine  the  wound." 

Mr.  Sweet  was  not  insensible.  As  they  laid  him  down 
and  the  doctor  bent  over  him,  he  fixed  his  protruding  eyes 
on  that  functionary's  face  with  an  intensely  eager  look. 


^ 


(1 


296 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


:;i    .'i. 


'  I 


The  examination  was  soon  ended  ;  the  doctor  arose  and 
shook  his  head  dismally. 

"  It's  of  no  use  ;  the  wound  is  fatal.  If  you  hare  any- 
thing to  say,  Mr.  Sweet,  you  had  better  say  it  at  once, 
for  your  hours  are  numbered." 

Mr.  Sweet's  face  by  no  earthly  possibility  could  turn 
more  ghastly  than  it  was  ;  so  he  only  let  his  head  fall 
back  with  a  hollow  groan,  and  lay  perfectly  motionless. 
Mr.  Channing,  with  a  business-like  air,  drew  up  a  seat 
and  sat  down  beside  him. 

"You  have  heard  what  the  doctor  says,  Sweet.  You 
had  better  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  before  you  go." 

Another  hollow  groan  was  Mr.  Sweet's  answer.  All 
his  courage  seemed  to  have  fled,  leaving  nothing  behind 
but  most  abject  terror. 

' '  Out  with  it,  Sweet !  It  may  ease  your  conscience. 
We  will  send  for  a  clergyman,  if  you  like." 

"No  ;  it  would  be  of  no  use  ;  he  could  do  me  no  good. 
Oh-oh-oh  ! " 

Another  prolonged  and  dismal  groan. 

"Commence,  then,  at  once;  do  one  act  of  justice 
before  you  die.  It  was  you  who  murdered  Leicester  Cliffe, 
was  it  not  ?  "  said  Mr.  Channing,  briskly  producing  note- 
book and  pencil. 

"It  was.     It's  of  no  use  denying  it  now." 

"Why  did  you  do  it .?     What  was  your  motive ? " 

"Jealousy.  I  heard  him  urging  my  wife  to  elope  with 
him.  I  was  mad  with  jealousy,  and  I  followed  and  killed 
him." 

"You  came  here  directly  after  the  murder?" 

"I  did." 

"Would  you  have  let  Tom  Shirley  hang  for  your 
crime  ? " 

*  *  How  could  I  help  it  ?  Either  he  or  I  must  hang  for 
it.     Oh-oh-oh-oh ! " 

Another  prolonged  groan. 

"You've  been  a  nice  hypocrite  !"  said  Mr.  Channing. 
"  Is  this  other  story  about  your  wife  having  been  the 
daughter  of  Colonel  Shirley  quite  true  ?  " 

"  it  is — every  word  of  it." 

"Not  every  word.  You  knew  it  all  along,  of 
course } " 

"Yes." 


;i 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


297 


rose  and 

are  any- 
at  once, 

luld  turn 
head  fall 
Dtionless. 
p  a  seat 

et.     You 

IV  er.  All 
ig  behind 

nscience. 

no  good. 


of  justice 
^terCliffe, 
ing  note- 


lope  with 
ind  killed 


for  your 
hang  for 


lanning. 
)een  the 


ong,    of 


'*You   said  you  didn't,  though.     And   Miss  Vivia  is 
really  the  daughter  of  that  man  at  the  doorr'  " 


"Yes 
fury 


curse  him  !  "  cried  Mr.  Sweet,  with  momentary 
And  he  is  an   escaped  convict;  and  you  know 
what  the  penalty  of  that  is  ?  " 

"1  know  very  weii.  Another  thing,  Mr.  Sweet,  Black 
mentioned,  while  the  colonel  was  absent  fetching  you, 
that  before  you  struck  Leicester  Cliffe,  a  mysterious  voice 
arose  from  the  grave  and  told  him  his  doom  was  come, 
or  something  to  that  effect.  Can  you  account  for  that 
little  circumstance?" 

"Very  easily.  I  am  a  ventriloquist,  and  I  ha\e  made 
use  of  my  power  more  than  once  to  terrify  Barbara  and 
him  at  the  Nun's  Grave." 

"Humph!  They  say  open  confessions  are  good  for 
the  soul,  and  yours  ought  to  feel  relieved  after  this.  Is 
there  anything  else,  Colonel }  " 

"I  think  not.  What  miserable  dupes  we  have  all 
been  !  " 

' '  Ah,  you  may  say  that.  It's  a  thousand  pities  so 
clever  a  rascal  should  have  cheated  the  hangman  !  " 

"  He  hasn't  cheated  him,"  said  the  doctor,  composedly. 
**  He  is  no  more  likely  to  die  than  I  am.  The  stab  is  a 
mere  trifle,  that  some  lint  and  linen  bandages  will  set  all 
right  in  no  time.  Colonel,  ring  the  bell,  and  order  both 
articles,  while  I  stop  the  blood,  which  is  flow^ing  rather 
fast." 

"You  said — you  said,  "gasped  Mr.  Sweet,  with  horrible 
eagerness —  "  you  said  the  wound  was  fatal !  " 

"So  I  did,  my  dear  sir,  so  I  did;  but  I  just  wanted  to 
you  a  little,  and  so  get  all  the  truth.  All  is 
fair  in  war,  you  know,  and  white  lies  are  excusable  in  such 
cases.  Here's  the  lint.  Now,  the  bandages.  Thank  you, 
Colonel.  Don't  twitch  so  ;  I  wouldn't  hurt  you  for  the 
world.  Please  the  pigs  !  we'll  have  you  all  ready  to  stand 
your  trial  in  a  week." 

Every  one  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief,  not  even  ex- 
cepting Mr.  Black,  who  felt,  upon  after  thought,  a  little 
sorry  he  had  ended  Mr.  Sweet's  sufferings  so  soon.  But, 
whether  from  the  reaction  or  the  loss  of  blood,  Mr.  Sweet 
himself  had  no  sooner  heard  the  conclusion  of  the  doc- 
tor's speech  than  he  fell  back  on  the  sofa,  fainting. 

*'Can  he  be  removed.  Doctor.?"  asked  the  colonel. 


frighten 


H 


n 


398 


WEDDED  FOR  PJQUE. 


I. 


Ml 


J! 


"Of  course  he  can.  Put  him  in  the  carriage,  and  drive 
slowly,  and  he  can  go  to  the  jail  as  safely  as  any  of  us. 
I  shall  make  a  point  of  conscience  of  visiting  him  there 
every  day.  I  never  knew  a  gentleman  I  shall  have  more 
pleasure  in  restoring  to  health  than  my  dear  friend  Mr. 
Sweet." 

"Of  course  Tom  is  free  to  leave  immediately,  Mr. 
Channing?" 

"  Of  course,  Colonel !  of  course  !  Poor  boy  I  how 
shamefully  he  has  been  wronged  !  and  what  a  providen- 
tial thing  the  wrong  did  not  go  still  further !  " 

"It's  all  right  now!"  said  the  doctor.  "The  wheel 
turns  slowly,  but  it  turns  surely.  Blood  will  cry  for  venge- 
ance, and  murder  will  out." 

A  carriage  was  ordered  round  and  the  blinds  closely 
drawn  down.  Mr.  Sweet,  still  insensible,  was  placed  in 
the  back  seat,  in  charge  of  the  doctor  and  Mr.  Channing, 
and  Mr.  Black  and  the  constable  were  accommodated 
with  the  opposite  one.  The  colonel  mounted  his  horse 
and  rode  on  in  advance,  to  bring  glad  tidings  of  great  joy 
to  Tom  Shirley  in  his  prison  cell. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  CURTATN. 


The  sun  shines  on  the  just  and  the  unjust — yes,  for  it 
shone,  one  sunny  afternoon,  on  the  glistening  spires,  and 
domes,  and  palaces,  and  thronged  streets  of  a  great  city, 
and  on  a  large,  quiet-looking  gray  building,  enshrined  in 
tall  trees,  away  from  the  ceaseless  hum  of  busy  life,  in 
a  remote  street ;  and  the  great  city  was  gay,  brilliant, 
wicked  Paris,  and  the  quiet  gray  building  among  the  trees 
was  the  Ursuline  convent. 

It  is  fourteen  months  since  we  were  in  Cliftonlea; 
fourteen  months  since  Colonel  Shirley  and  Tom  left  for 
the  scene  of  war,  Egypt ;  fourteen  months  since  Cliftonlea 
was  thrown  into  a  state  of  unparalleled  excitement  upon 
seeing  Mr.  Sweet,  with  a  rope  round  his  neck,  dancing 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUF., 


299 


on  nothing ;  fourteen  months  since  Margaret  Shirley  joined 
the  band  of  devoted  women  who  went  as  nurses  to  the 
soldiers  at  the  scene  of  conflict.  Fourteen  months  is  a 
long  time,  with  room  for  many  changes.  The  war  was 
over ;  the  victorious  troops  had  returned  to  their  own 
country.  Colonel  Shirley  had  won,  by  hard  fighting,  a 
baronetage,  and  the  Cross  of  the  Bath,  and  was  now  Gen- 
eral Sir  Cliffe  Shirley.  Margaret  had  joined  the  Sisters  of 
Charity,  whom  she  met  in  the  hospitals,  and  was  now  the 
humble  servant  of  the  very  humblest  class  in  London. 

But  all  this  was  passed,  and  on  this  summer  afternoon 
you  are  going  through  an  iron  gate,  up  an  avenue  of 
golden  laburnums,  and  are  ringing  a  bell  at  the  great  con- 
vent door.  An  old  portress  admits  you,  and  you  pass 
through  a  long  hall  into  the  convent  church.  The  sun- 
shine, coming  through  the  magnificent  stained-glass  win- 
dows, fills  it  with  a  solemn  gloom  ;  an  immense  golden 
lamp,  suspended  from  the  carved  ceiling  by  a  long  chain, 
burns  before  the  grand  altar ;  superb  pictures  line  the 
walls,  and  lovely  statues  look  down  from  niches  and 
brackets.  The  solemn  air  is  filled  with  music  ;  for  a  young 
nun,  lovely  of  face,  slender  of  figure,  sits  up  in  the  organ- 
loft,  playing  and  singing  the  "Stabat  Mater."  It  is  Sister 
Ignacia,  once  Mademoiselle  de  St.  Hilary,  Vivia  Shirley's 
old  friend. 

One  other  figure  only  is  in  the  church,  and  it  kneels  be- 
fore a  magnificent  picture,  a  copy  of  Paul  Rubens'  "De- 
scent from  the  Cross."  It  is  not  a  nun  who  kneels  before 
this  picture — not  even  a  novice  ;  for  she  wears  no  veil, 
either  white  or  black  ;  her  golden  hair,  like  Magdalen's 
own,  in  the  picture,  is  pushed  from  her  face  and  confined 
in  a  silken  net ;  her  dress  is  unrelieved  black.  You  can- 
not see  her  face,  it  is  hidden  in  her  hands  as  she  kneels  ; 
but  you  can  tell  she  is  young  by  the  exquisite  beauty  of 
those  hands,  and  the  slender,  delicate  figure. 

While  she  kneels  and  prays,  the  door  softly  opens  ; 
Sister  Anastasia,  the  old  portress,  glides  in  and  taps  her 
softly  on  the  shoulder,  and  the  kneeler  rises  and  follows 
her  softly  out  to  the  vestibule. 

You  can  see  now  that  the  face  is  youthful  and  lovely — 
made  more  lovely  by  the  marvelous  purity  and  calm  that 
look  at  you  through  the  dark  violet  eyes,  than  by  any  per- 
fection of  feature  or  of  complexion  ;  for  the  face  is  thin, 
wan,  and  wasted  to  a  degree. 


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300 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


Sister  Anastasia  takes  a  card  out  of  her  pocket  and  hands 
it  to  the  young  lady,  who  becomes  vivid  crimson  the  mo- 
ment she'  looks  at  it,  and  who  covers  her  face  with  her 
hands,  and  turns  away  even  from  the  averted  eyes  of  the 
portress. 

"They  are  in  the  parlor,"  Sister  Anastasia  says,  quietly, 
and  goes  back  to  her  chair  at  the  door. 

The  young  girl  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  same  atti- 
tude, her  bowed  face  hidden  in  her  hands  ;  and  then  start- 
ing suddenly  up,  hastened  along  a  corridor,  up  a  tlight  of 
stairs,  and  tapped  at  a  door  on  the  landing  above. 

*'  Enter  !  "  said  a  sweet  voice  ;  and  obeying  the  order, 
the  young  lady  went  in  and  knelt  at  the  feet  of  the  stately 
Lady  Abl)ess,  who  sat,  with  a  pile  of  letters  before  her, 
reading. 

**  Well,  dear  child,"  said  the  lady,  laying  her  hand  kindly 
on  the  bowed  head  ;  "  what  is  it  ?  ' 

For  all  answer  the  young  lady  placed  in  her  hand  the 
card  she  had  just  received,  and  bowed  her  head  lower 
than  ever. 

The  nun  looked  at  it,  gravely  at  first ;  and  then,  with 
a  little  smile  : 

**  My  dear,  it  is  well ;  you  have  my  permission  to  receive 
your  visitors," 

"But  not  alone,  mother  ! — dear  mother,  not  alone  !  " 

The  lady  still  sat  and  looked  at  her,  with  the  same  quiet 
smile. 

"Will  you  not  come  with  me,  mother.?  I — I — should 
like  it  so  muchc" 

*  *  Certainly,  my  dear,  if  you  wish  it." 

Both  arose,  descended  the  stairs,  passed  through  the  ves- 
tibule, and  opening  a  door  to  the  left,  entered  the  very 
plainest  of  convent  parlors. 

The  room  had  two  occupants.  One  was  a  gentleman, 
stalwart  and  tall,  in  undress  military  uniform,  bronzed, 
and  moustached,  and  looking  wonderfully  out  of  place 
within  those  monastic  walls. 

Seated  beside  him  was  a  younger  man,  also  bronzed  in 
face,  and  with  a  marked  military  bearing. 

They  arose  as  the  ladies  entered,  and  General  Shirley 
hastily  advanced  and  warmly  embraced  Vivia.  A  pang 
— of  only  momentary  duration,  however — seized  the  gen- 
eral as  he  saw  that  Vivia,  when  Tom  turned  toward  her. 


and  hands 
in  the  mo- 
;  with  her 
yes  of  the 

rs,  quietly, 

same  atti- 

then  start- 

,  a  tlight  of 

)VC. 

the  order, 
the  stately 
before  her, 

tiand  kindly 

er  hand  the 
head  lower 

1  then,  with 

in  to  receive 

it  alone  !  "^ 
same  quiet 

[ — I — should 


^ugh  the  ves- 
red  the  very 

gentleman, 
J-m,  bronzed, 
lout  of  place 

bronzed  in 

leral  Shirley 
ria.  A  pang 
ized  the  gen- 
toward  her. 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE. 


301 


impulsively  threw  herself  into  his  arms,  and  permitted  her 
head  to  sink  upon  his  breast.  The  greeting  to  the  general 
had  been  affectionate,  but  not  at  all  like  this. 

**  Oh,  Tom  !  Tom  !  "  she  exclaimed,  without  raising  her 
head,    "how  you  must  have  suffered  !  " 

She,  of  course,  had  been  duly  apprised  ot  all  the  events 
which  had  occurred  fourteen  months  before,  and  this  was 
her  first  meeting  with  Tom  since  his  release  from  the 
prison. 

No  wonder  that  she  lingered  close  to  that  heart  which 
she  knew  had  long  enshrined  her,  for  it  was  the  heart  of 
the  only  man  she  had  ever  really  loved. 


The  next  morning  was  balmy  and  spring-like,  and  the 
very  twitter  of  the  birds,  as  a  small  bridal  party  halted  be- 
fore the  Church  of  Notre  Dame,  was  auspicious  of  hap- 
piness to  the  young  couple  who,  after  troubles  deep  and 
dire,  had  at  last  agreed  to  join  heart  and  hand  in  that 
union  which  only  death  can  sever.  It  was  a  quiet  wed- 
ding, witnessed  only  by  a  few  friendsof  the  general  ;  and 
immediately  afterward  the  principals  took  the  express 
t  -lin  for  Calais. 

Just  before  the  radiant  and  happy  bride  entered  the  car- 
riage which  was  to  convey  her  and  Tom  Shirley  to  the 
depot,  the  general  fondly  kissed  her,  and  said  : 

"Now,  my  darling,  you  have  a  right  to  the  name  of 
Shirley.  But  I  forgot  to  mention  that,  for  valiant  services 
in  the  field,  your  impetuous  wooer,  but  now  sedate,  hus- 
band won  rapid  promotion,  and  his  intimates  familiarly 
speak  of  him  as  Colonel  Tom  Shirley. " 


Once  more  the  joy  bells  were  ringing  in  Cliftonlea,  once 
more  the  charity-children  turned  out  to  strew  the  streets 
with  flowers,  once  more  triumphal  arches  were  raised, 
and  the  flag  of  welcome  floated  from  the  cupola  of  Castle 
CHffe,  once  more  bonfires  were  kindled,  fireworks  went 
off,  and  music  and  dancing,  drinking  and  feasting,  were  to 
be  had  for  the  asking,  and  crowds  upon  ciowds  of  well- 
dressed  people  filled  the  park. 

Castle  Clifife,  from  cellar  to  battlement  was  one  blaze  of 
light,  once  more  the  German  band  came  down  from  Lon- 


\ 


303 


WEDDED  FOR  PIQUE, 


'.I  i  ; 


I .  'yiii:  I 


I, 


don  to  delight  the  ears  of  hundreds  of  guests,  once  mort 
Lady  Agnes  was  blazing  resplendent  in  velvet  and  dia 
mends,  and  once  more  Sir  Roland,  on  his  gold-headed 
cane,  limped  from  room  to  room,  in  spite  of  his  gout,  in 
perfect  ecstasies  at  seeing  his  pet,  Vivia,  again — it  was  so 
delightfully  like  the  old  times. 

And  Vivia  was  there  again,  robed  as  a  bride,  in  white 
lace  and  satin,  and  orange  blossoms  and  jewels,  lovely  as 
a  vision  ;  and  this  time  the  bridegroom  was  not  absent. 
He  stood  there  in  his  becoming  colonel's  uniform  ;  and  no 
shadow  from  the  past  was  permitted  to  dim  the  brightness 
of  that  night.  Not  even  Lady  Agnes  could  think  of  her 
obscure  birth  ;  for  no  princess  could  look  more  noble  and 
stately  than  did  she  ;  no  one  thought  of  that  father  of  hers 
who  had  broken  so  artfully  from  jail,  and  made  his  escape 
to  parts  unknown — helped,  rumor  said,  by  the  man  she 
had  long  believed  to  be  her  father.  No  one  thought  of 
anything  but  that  the  bride  and  bridegroom  were  the  hand- 
somest and  happiest  couple  in  the  world. 

"Come  out  here,  Vivia,"  he  said  to  her,  opening  a  glass 
door  leading  down  to  the  terrace.  "  It  is  a  lovely  night, 
and  this  ball-room  is  oppressively  hot." 

He  drew  her  arm  within  his,  and  Colonel  Tom  and  Lady 
Shirley  walked  along  the  terrace  in  the  serene  moonlight. 
The  park,  looking  like  fairy-land,  lay  at  their  feet,  filled 
with  hundreds  of  happy  guests,  and  music,  and  merry 
voices  ;  the  town  lay  quiet  and  tranquil,  looking  pretty 
and  picturesque,  as  all  places  do  in  the  moonlight ;  and 
far  away  spread  out  the  wide  sea,  its  ceaseless  waves 
surging  the  same  old  song  to  the  shore  they  had  sung 
when  she  heard  them  first,  a  happy,  careless  child. 

"  Dear,  dear  Cliftonlea  !  "  said  Vivia,  her  eyes  filling 
with  happy  tears.      '*  How  glad  I  am  to  see  it  again. " 

Colonel  Tom  did  not  speak.  He  merely  pressed  a  rap- 
turous kiss  upon  the  willing  lips,  and  then  turned  his  own 
tear-dimmed  eyes  from  the  lovely  face,  to  conceal  the 
emotion  he  experienced  ;  and  in  silence  the  bronzed  young 
soldier  and  his  pretty  bride  stood  on  the  terrace  watching 
the  young  moon  rise. 


I 


THE  ENLv 


once  mort 
et  and  dia 
§:old-headeA 
tiis  gout,  in 
11 — it  was  so 

ie,  in  white 
Is,  lovely  as 
not  absent, 
►rm  ;  and  no 
J  brightness 
hink  of  her 
e  noble  and 
ither  of  hers 
e  his  escape 
le  man  she 
thought  of 
re  the  hand- 

[ling  a  glass 
•vely  night, 

■n  and  Lady 
moonlight, 
feet,  filled 
and  merry 
king  pretty 
ilight ;  and 
less  waves 
'  had  sung 
hild. 

syes  filling 
again. " 
ssed  a  rap- 
ed his  own 
onceal  the 
ized  young 
B  watching 


